Reflections 2024

REFLECTIONS

Retirement Dedication to Dr. Tom Pruit

Our literary magazine gladly recognizes that Dr. Tom Pruit has been for many years the principal guide – as mentor and exemplar – for all creative writers at our school. As he perhaps only half discerned when he began teaching at Cistercian in the middle of a semester ages ago, he had an important mission among us: to present the “old verities,” indeed, and in their most beautiful forms, and to do so in a convincing way, which is to say, with delight in his work and love for his students and colleagues. His steady hand, literally and figuratively, was with many young men, assisting, inspiring, and steadying them as they faced that initial leap from child to man that is always somehow a moment of shock. He showed us that we had to live up to the greatness of the works we faced, and had to live more deeply within the gifts we ourselves had been given without knowing it. His happy slap on the back could remind you that you are indeed free to be yourself, to move forward with urgency to living a good life. Always further up and further in! —Fr. Stephen, O. Cist., ’01

TO THE TOASTMASTER GENERAL

Dr. Thomas Branch Pruit

Every poem is really a toast, an honor with a host. It lifts up a brimming glass or almost empty flask among a group of revellers already a bit disheveled. It clothes their hearts in coat-tails, boutonnières, and veils, yet tells the party nothing new, but only what they knew already when the day began in words that maybe scan. The poem accepts and raises up what’s gathered in the cup by long familiarity, and with sincerity distills that dew mysterious to liquor of experience. When a sip of what has been is shared, “may it be!” is heard.

Letter from the Editors

To hear that something is chaotic is often a bad thing; if this “often” was every time, however, Reflections would have collapsed years ago. The pandemic would have thrown the team into a tizzy... the loss of seniors at the end of last year would have eaten up our work productivity... but the threats we faced this year were arguably of a much greater magnitude. Pietro, for example, frequently tempted the staff with ping-pong or golf instead of much-needed work. Weinberg and Theo invaded our room every other meeting, trying to coerce us into doing the daily Connections. Even Luke Raines appeared every lunch hour during the summer to chat up the staff. A good idea for next year might be to install a child-proof lock on the door. But Reflections thrives on chaos.

The uncertainty of every meeting’s progress meant more time shared together. The spontaneous contributions of every person that walked into the room were invaluable—sparking the emergence of another one of Henry’s colorful spreads or one of Cub’s perfectly suited photographs. The cover we chose for this year’s magazine also reflects this spontaneity. The abstract painting by Sean Connor (’30) shows that while bold decisions made on the fly, like brushstrokes and colors, are risky, they can result in something beautiful. Though sporadic, and often chaotic, every action taken in or out of our humble abode in the Library Classroom has slowly accumulated into this 41st edition of Reflections. We embrace the chaos.

Sean Connor ’30 Cover Art

Table of Contents

Art and Photography

Poetry and Prose

WATER

Falling from the dark gray sky

Drowning out the wind’s harsh howl

Pattering on trees’ leaves

Dulling out all distractions

A quiet overflowing with noise

The toils of the day receding

The mind, finally at ease

Just listening to the sound

Of nature’s greatest thing

Rushing down the river

Tearing up the life

Nothing obstructing the might

That’s coming our way

The clap of thunder through the air

violent crashing of the waves

Eating away the earth

The thrashing of innocent prey

Caught in the cruelty of it all

by Harrison Moran ’29

Cub Gerber ’25 Grecian Sunset

Innocence Lost

Jamion Berard ’25

In the quiet corners of the orphanage’s halls. There lingers a boy who mutely recalls. The echoes of a past, veiled in gray. Where shadows of conflict stole his parents away.

Amidst the laughter of children, he stands apart, Carrying burdens too heavy for his tender heart.

In his eyes, a depth, a sorrow undefined, A silent nod to the war left behind.

The walls whisper secrets of battles long past, A language of loss that forever will last.

His small hands, once held by those now gone, Grasp at memories, fleeting like the dawn.

In the nighttime stillness, when dreams take flight, He listens for echoes of a distant fight.

The rhythm of his heartbeat, a steady drum, In the silence, he feels where his past came from.

A photograph hidden beneath his threadbare sheet, A portrait of love, a memory bittersweet

His parents’ faces, etched with lines of care, A reminder of a bond too precious to bear.

Through the window, where moonlight softly gleans, He gazes upon a world lost in dreams. But within his heart, a battlefield lies, Where young innocence forever cries.

And so he waits, string at the mirror’s face Yearning for a love, a warm embrace. His story is dark, his lifetime left cold, A silent witness to the world’s cruel hold.

Love.

Dylan Salcido ’25

We all know this ain’t nothing

Quit the judging

Stop the shoving

And just start loving

Everywhere I see hate

It seems like the world’s permanent state

One which will never sedate

This we cannot debate

America the land of spin

Always gets under people’s skin

And when both sides hate each other

Everyone will suffer

No nuance present

Everyone on antidepressants

The goodness of man is senescent

The problem is apparent

Hate is a cosmic force

It causes the sun to bleed

And the moon to bruise

Until everything is abused

Hate is like a person driving the wrong way

It’s like a movement without a cause

It’s like a culture without a people

It’s like age without wisdom

I’m sad because there is no love here

Life becomes far too bare

Then it becomes much to bear

How do we combat this?

Will we ever know bliss?

Will we become like the rest? And fail every one of life’s tests?

The answer is clear:

Love yourself

Love your enemies

Love your brothers and sisters

Love those around you

We can wish the good of someone

Without enjoying their company

Love is a complex nuance

It’s the person who’s there when life gets too harsh

It’s the mom who finds the rope

The one who brings you hope

It’s a never ending response

Everyone makes mistakes

So we must give them grace

By not letting grudges control us

So put down the guns and just discuss

Make peace with enemies

And with emotions

Love is not an asterisk

It’s a period.

Riley Murphy ’25 Forest Sunset

Brooks Griffith ‘30

The Quiet Place

The golden trees shine as the sun begins to rise, The fauns begin to dance to a beautiful somber melody, As the golden trees catch the morning light, I feel as if I have taken a jog, and now the cold settles into me, For the amazing melody that is being played chills me, But gives me a warm feeling.

As the fauns dance and the tree shine, My soul plays a melody that I know is mine. Quite happy and safe with a hint of sadness, But perfectly content to stay, looking at the trees.

My heart warms at the moves of the fauns, A strange peace settling inside me.

The fauns start to blur in my eyes,

As they paint a beautiful picture.

I can’t quite tell what it is, But I don’t care to know either.

It is beautiful, that much I can see, I just wish you were here dancing among the trees.

The quiet place was made for me, It is quite perfect, under this golden tree. As much as I want to watch, my eyes start to close, This wonderful place fading to a dream. Then I awaken and wonder if I am still dreaming.

THE SLUMBERING ONE

Cannon Blackwell ‘29

AT FIRST, IT KNEW NOTHING. Nothing but the black curtain of sleep and unconsciousness. It knew its own name, and only void. Its name was an ancient name, one only uttered by ancient peoples in terror and future peoples in thanks, as a prayer to command their armies to victory. Its name was Arixmethes.

silence held them together. 12:00. Marinsky pressed the button, and a green indicator came on. A smattering of congratulatory whispers tittered through the crowd. Unfortunately for the reporters, the little electric signal to the satellite did its job. On the loadout, a simple box emitted a copious amount of orange into a black nothing. Various sensors reported a loss of electrons from the central cannon. Much to the dissatisfaction of the scientists, nothing else happened. Or so said the loadout.

He had done it. Dr. J. Marinsky had found a way to time travel. In his lab in New York, he had found a way to look into the great beyond, that which lay outside of Earth by electrical signal. The doctor discovered that by shooting an electric current at a latent object, he could get to an image to return—a 3-dimensional image, in fact. It was the first time it had been tested for a crowd. The great scholars of the world had gathered to see the time machine work, and the great reporters from the great agencies came to interview the joyful scientist. At the stroke of noon, the doctor would send a go signal to a satellite with an “electron cannon” attached. A powerful electric current would surge up outwards, and the electrons would bounce about in space before reporting what they bounced off. This would come back in the form of an image.

the “Enter” button. A nervous chill went through the crowd, and a tense A

It felt. There and then, the unconsciousness that it had known for eternity was severed, and it felt. It was not a big feeling, not a jab of electric energy, but that odd prickle one gets when he starts thinking someone just looked at him. For the first time since... eternity, the slumbering being that was began to cease its slumbering. It twitched, unhappy with its awakening. And then, there was nothing.

It was 11:58, and a hush fell over the assembly as Dr. Marinsky, clothed in protective clothes and gloves, went up to the tremendous cylinder’s keypad, and typed in the access code. The loadout popped onscreen. 11:59. Dr. Marinsky’s gloved hand hovered over

And then, it came back. A grainy, black-and-white ultrasound kind of image began to flutter to life on the screen. It showed a large white mass where the moon was, little white dots where the stars lay, and a confusing elongated mass where... where a galaxy was? Nothing was charted there for that night, save the moon and the appropriate constellations. The reporters clamored about, as obviously it was a meteor swarm, doubtless it was an incoming ion storm, clearly it was a Russian nuclear weapon, evidently it was an alien mothership. Well, that last one might have been a joke from someone who had played too much Metroid.

A few weeks later, when the image had come out on television and the news, Dr. J. Marinski decided to try and electron-photograph the odd thing again. His scientists had worked their tails off trying to improve the visibility of the machine’s pictures. had developed a more expensive and better sensor to get clearer images, and they had upped the number of electrons ejected into space, integrated the reporting system into higher detail, and set out to capture a more illustrating depiction of the thing.

Again, the reporting agencies from across the globe had rolled in like a thunderstorm to spark and drizzle and douse the poor lab in advice and questions. The leaders of the world, namely the President, watched from their private abodes as Dr. J. Marinski walked over to the great machine and lingered over the button to redo the event that had caused all this uproar. The moon’s position in the sky was noted, and the ejector rolled over to the expected position of the puzzling mass. At stroke of midnight, Marinski pressed the green button for the second time to photograph the great beyond.

And then it was back. In no time at all it felt the odd sensation that one gets when someone blows air at you or touches your utmost article of clothing. It was that chill, hair-raising, tangible feeling that makes one want to turn around and yell “Piss off!” But It did not know anything at all of clothing, or air, or of anything at all – at least, not until now. Arixmethes was waking, and it knew of something. It knew of that irritated anger that a nettled father or a great bear poked feels when he

has just about had it. Arixmethes turned lazily where it lay to face whatever had whispered over its back. The assembled were stunned. There in the midst of space lay such a tremendous thing with such a horrible face, and worse yet it had been looking toward them! Such images as those returned by the Marinski Project shook the planet once more. A giant bug sitting in space had been looking towards Earth without anyone ever knowing! The space crab, as it came to be known, was immense, bigger than the moon, bigger than any star around it. Its face was a horrible face of a tremendous lobster that had piercing eyes and a jagged mandible conglomeration at its mouth. Its back was like a mountain range, and its legs were like serrated overturned peaks that moved.

Arixmethes was awoken. The flows of ions that had jolted him from pure unconsciousness increased in number, and so he awoke. Simple as opening his long dormant eyes and flexing his previously immobile segmented legs. Arixmethes did not take well to being awoken however, just as a great beast finally snaps. It opened its great jaws and began to summon energy that had been stored up in its hyperspace travels into a great ball at its mouth. Countless amounts of dark energy and light filled its mouth. Arixmethes was ready. With one breath, it began to prepare itself for its first of many destructions.

Little did the Earth know, they had just incurred the wrath of the ancient destroyer, the slumbering isle, the great arisen one. They had stirred Arixmethes.

Always an Abyss

Byron Duhé ’25

Towering over the surrounding scenery, the majestic mountain seemed like an indestructible fortress. However, despite its elegant shape, it stood largely devoid of life in stark contrast to the neighboring vast, verdant, and lush landscape. According to the people of the nearby villages, the mountain’s lifelessness has claimed the souls of many bold adventurers who have never returned from attempting its summit. However, these tales did not stop a certain young hermit from settling this rocky wasteland. He built a cabin overlooking the rolling pastures, whose persistent pleas calling him away from the mountain he constantly refused. He had always felt naturally drawn to their mysterious splendor, but he suppressed these emotions in favor of settling where no man had settled before. Although he lived on the peak for many years without much issue, this longing grew as strong as ever.

One day, the man took a hike down the mountain and deep into the nearby forest. On his way back home, however, he noticed that the

mountain had changed shape—it became more lopsided, and his cabin stood at a somewhat lower altitude than before. The usual sense of majesty which captivated him when looking at that elegant peak was meddled with a newfound trace of fright and angst. When he ascended to his cabin, the air became irritatingly rough and dry, almost as if he were inhaling dust from the mountain itself. He felt the coarseness of the air tear at his lungs. He felt his joints become heavier and stiffer as they struggled to support even his own weight. He felt his skin become rigid and take on a vaguely unsaturated, gray tone. As the day dissolved into darkness, he gazed into the distance and watched the gloomy clouds slowly piece together a formidable tempest. At this sight, something, some feeling that, despite all his efforts he could not explain, shuddered him with terror. He entered the cabin, whose door no longer fit in its hinge, to try to rest for the night. As he descended into his bed, the cold, ghastly sheets grazed over his skin and produced the sensation of descending into a coffin.

The storm truly raged over the crumbling cabin that night. The man could feel the severe substance of each individual raindrop showering the house with an array of ammunition. Each drop steadily eroded the foundations of the hermit’s housing until the cliffside suddenly crashed down. The storm had reduced it to rubble. The surface of the mountain caved on itself as the tempest left a gaping ravine in its wake. The former cabin and its inhabitant tumbled into their stony sepulcher. During the entire incident, the horrified hermit, paralyzed by some strange petrification, could only open his eyes and slightly gape open his mouth. According to many, the cabin has completely withered away, but the man, in his utterly rocky form, still resides there at the bottom of the mountain’s deep scar. They say his trapped soul still lurks within the alpine pass. Here, his face, with its helpless expression of horror still vividly imprinted into the stone, serves to warn all who dare tread near the Peak of the Petrified.

Patrick Neylon ’27 Macbeth’s Dagger

REMINISCENCE

Cash Lechler ’25

As I sit and watch the squirrel crawl up the metal post of the bird feeder, I hear the familiar voice of my grandmother, “Would you like a fudge bar?” It’s the same question week after week.

“Bama, it’s 10 o’clock in the moming—but sure I’ll take one,” I respond. For as long as I can remember, every Saturday morning I would head over to my grandparents’ home to mow the lawn and help with any other work that needed to be done. When I was younger, I remember dreading the idea of wasting my Saturday morning doing yardwork, but as I watch my grandparents grow older, this task has become one of the greatest gifts I have.

When I finish all the work, I head inside to take a seat in the kitchen overlooking the freshly cut backyard. My grandparents come and sit with me, and we just talk. This has become our routine, yet it always feels so natural-never forced. My grandmother often thanks me numerous times for mowing the grass, but she doesn’t know that these conversations are all the thanks I need. Bama and Papa have so much knowledge to share, whether it be stories from their youth or tales from when my mother was young. I can see their eyes light up as they reminisce—it’s the storytelling that reminds them of details they might otherwise have forgotten.

Now a challenge has arisen which makes me more grateful for the time I spend with them every week. They are getting older and slower. Every week my grandfather tells about a new injury or pain that he has. My grandmother asks the same questions multiple times in every conversation as her memory weakens. This has really put life in perspective for me. I realize that these people who have done so much for me throughout my life will not always be with me. One day, they will be gone. Will I regret not spending more time with them? Did I show them how grateful I am for them? Did I make them proud? These are the questions that race through my head. So, no amount of yard work, no amount of patience, and no fudge bar at 10 o’clock in the moming will ever deter me from heading over to my grandparents’ house every Saturday morning to cherish the limited time and conversations I have left with them.

Grassy Field Stefano Salomone ’25

Seoul Train Station

Silas Choi ‘25

There was once a salaryman in Seoul, South Korea. The bustling streets surrounded by glowing lights masked the Seoul Train Station’s unnerving feel. It was 12:30 a.m., his time to clock out of his weary job and commute back home to his family. As he stood on the underground platform of the subway, the creaking of the wheels and the sound of iron hitting iron echoed through the air.

The Seoul Train arrived in front of him, but this time it felt different. It felt unnerving to him. The words on the electrical sign seemed archaic, but when he blinked it returned to normal. He dismissed it, blaming it on his lack of sleep. He had commuted on this train for decades yet he felt a lump form in his throat as he entered the train.

The doors sealed tightly behind him; he examined the passengers on board, a habit he often indulged. A family of two was seated directly in front of him, an American YouTuber was filming a video on his right, and on his left, a young boy dressed in a school uniform. The salaryman sat down and prepared to nap, when he suddenly felt a voice in his head, almost ethereal, ordering, “You may only get off at the last stop.” Spooked, he awoke and saw similar faces around him. The American dropped his phone and exclaimed “What the hell was that!” The mother, alarmed, wrapped her arms around her two children. The cart began to shake violently and the floor trembled like an earthquake be then it instantly stopped, it seemed to enter a free fall.

The windows flooded with a bathing light of the sun as the train exited a tunnel to a beautiful, green field. The subway should have continued underground for miles ahead, yet the passengers were watching the rolling hills of a pasture. The train halted to a stop, unbalancing the salaryman. It seemed that the train had made its first stop; everyone had to decide whether to leave or to stay. The salaryman decided to wait.

Currently, he has been waiting for 30 years.

Only the American had left at the first stop, saying in a furious tone that he would have none of this. No one knows what happened to him. The eternal chugging of the wheels became background music to the salaryman as he looked out the window.

“It’s space theme today!” laughed David, one of the two children of the family, now grown up but still as immature as ever. It was true, the sky was a deep purple and the grass was now replaced with speckles of glowing dust.

At each stop the train goes to a new place: a European city with cobblestone roads, rolling plains roaming with buffaloes, or the beaches of Mexico. Of course, there were no people. The travelers always found a cart that held dinner plates filled with food. Each passenger was provided with the food of their culture, and the cart would restock every night.

One night after dinner, David noticed the salaryman staring out into the purple sky.

“You’re not thinking of stepping off right?” he said.

“How did you know that, David?” replied the salaryman.

“I’ve known you my entire life; you’re always staring off into the distance; but are you really going to step off?”

“Yes. It’s been too long, and I miss my family.” The salaryman looked at a photo of his daughter and wife.

The chugging sound of the train seemed to become not so eternal to him. The car rattled with excitement.

“Why not just live here? We get free food and you don’t have to worry about anything--especially those horrid overtime hours you told me about,” urged David. “Besides, it’s too much of a gamble to go out. What if the next stop after you leave is the last one?”

The salaryman pondered for a moment but shook his head in determination. “I’m leaving this stop. I’m sorry, but if you do make it to the last stop, please tell my family about what happened to me.” The salaryman gave his photo to David.

The sound of wheels breaking pierced through the air, like a squeal of pleasure. The train made a thunk and came to a stop. Immediately, the scenery of purple changed to a harsh winter storm, as if urging the salaryman to stay inside the car. Mustering up his courage, however, the salaryman said his last goodbyes and departed the train with closed eyes. With one foot on the train and one foot on the ground, he flinched, anticipating the harsh wind blowing on his skin. However, he was met with a gentle breeze from an electrical fan. As he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the familiar, musty smell of the Seoul Train Station.

He was back where he had left, though the faded walls and the rusty railroads showed the toll time had taken. A voice echoed in his mind, “You may only get off at the last stop.” It was the same voice he had heard 30 years ago.

Whispers From the Drenched Field

Owen Kane ’25

Tuesdays always stir up a stormy mix of emotions in Ollie, because he has baseball practice. Usually this would be a cause for celebration, but all of his friends made the school team, and Ollie was forced to play with a group of strangers, only connected by their age.

The young boy still adored baseball, though, so he would always find himself enjoying the intricacies of the sport once he arrived. The hours dripped off the clock until it was eventually time for practice.

Ollie was dropped off by his father and began to make his way to the field. This field was not a typical one; it was hidden in a thicket and shrouded by trees. There was a single winding pathway that lead Ollie and his teammates to the field. The field itself was also unlike any other that Ollie had played on. The outfield was marked with yard lines, as if it were meant to be used for football, and the infield dirt was lumpy and uneven, causing unpredictable bounces. Most egregious was the pitcher’s mound, which was always soaking wet, so the dirt would sink in on itself. Each time the team used the mound, the hole in the mound would grow bigger and bigger.

“It’s like the mound wants to pull me in and eat me,” explained one of the pitchers on Ollie’s team.

“And the infield bounces like it’s trying to make me miss,” said another, agreeing with the pitcher.

While Ollie would never make any excuses, it was hard to deny that they certainly felt out of place. “This is the one baseball field that they certainly felt out of place. “This is the one baseball field that you’re not supposed to play baseball on,” Ollie thought to himself. Despite all of the players’ woes, the field was suitable for practice so no one took the initiative to try to find a different field to play on.

Ollie walked onto the field once again, just as he had always done. He looked up at the sky and noticed how overcast it was that Tuesday. The billowing clouds up above

Homerun Davidson Wang ‘29

looked heavy and ready to give way any moment; to Ollie, that was all the more reason to practice hard while he got the chance, so he hit the field and began practicing with his team.

Errors and mistakes came like unheeded warnings again and again. Each time they would be chalked up to a bad hop, bad sleep the night before, or just the nature of the game. Soon the warnings became more direct. Piercing wind began to throw off the trajectory of the ball, and several players swore they saw lightning in the distance.

Practice continued, however, until it eventually became too dark to see, and practice had to be called off for the night. The boys hurried to grab their bags before the rain came, as visibility was getting worse by the minute. But when they all arrived at the path to take them out of the wood, there was no path to be found. The fence just continued around, never yielding the opening.

Out of nowhere, thunder and lightning crashed like percussion and rain fell in sheets as if flood gates had suddenly been opened. The boys started shouting and screaming, but it was difficult to hear over the deafening roar of the wind and rain.

Suddenly, the lights on the field shut down, leaving everyone abandoned without their sense of sight. Ollie began desperately stumbling around. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know any of these people. He didn’t know where he was…until his foot suddenly caught something familiar.

The pitchers mound! Now maybe he could find his way out of this accursed field. But then Ollie felt something grab at his ankles. His heart dropped as he felt a cold, bony, inhuman hand grasp around his foot.

Ollie tried to rip his foot away and run, but he slammed against the soggy infield dirt. Weight was all he felt as he gradually was pulled down into the field, unable to see or hear anyone. As Ollie choked on dirt and wheezed his final breaths he realized that he might cause bad hops for the next team to play on this field.

THE LONG WALK

Rishabh Rengarajan ’25

Footsteps, a softly trickling creek, the steady hum of crickets, and the distant sounds of the great city were all that we could hear. We walked silently along the muddy mountain trail for hours, watching the sun slowly traveling through the sky. At length, the stranger with whom I walked revealed his mission to me. He intended to rediscover his family’s ancient estate near the peak of the mountain. Rarely visited, the fabled mansion hid in a shroud of secrecy and had amassed a trove of fanciful tales over the years. Regardless, it was too distant from civilization to be of any significance. The stranger asked if I would accompany him all the way, to keep him company. The explorer spirit in me encouraged me, and I heartily agreed to his venture.

As we walked, the soundscape of our surroundings fell away. The tiny creek had dried up, the crickets had stopped their incessant chirping, and the faraway city became silent, its cacophonous sounds of hustle and bustle replaced by quietude. The air also felt thicker and harder to breathe. The paved path soon disintegrated into dirt and sticks. As the light of approaching dusk began to wane, the world seemed to become dull and tired. Soon, we were left walking through a motionless world, led on by nothing but a tiny light in the heights above, perhaps a beacon indicating the location of the stranger’s lonely destination.

This entire time, the two of us remained relatively silent. But for the occasional appearance of an oddly shaped tree or rock, nothing intriguing ever occurred on our journey. Finally, we passed through an almost infinite

path overshadowed on two sides by towering dead trees. The darkness had become almost complete. The stranger muttered something about wondering where we were. Nothing could be seen but the enduring little light, wavering in the distance, beckoning us onward. The disconcerted man said he had forgotten his destination; he requested we return to the city lest we become lost. I said that if we simply continued walking toward the light, we would find our way. He slowly nodded with uncertainty and followed my lead. Enchanted by the silence, we continued our trek onwards, soon becoming unaware of even the sounds of our breath and footsteps.

The light of the sunset had finally disappeared. Now nothing remained but a pitch-black void and the solitary light. Presently we discovered a rocky clearing and the origin of the light—a warm campfire for weary travelers. As we approached it, its light steadily brightened, its warm glow calling us to rest, and I accepted its request. Sitting down in front of the fire, however, I noticed that the stranger continued walking. I called to him, “Come, sit here at the fire. We must rest.” But the man made no reply. He looked as if his soul had left him. I watched him trudge slowly as his bewitched figure approached the dead trees at the edge of the clearing. I watched the desperate fire make a final, hopeless flourish in his direction and mournfully dwindle to ashes as the stranger walked into an impenetrable thick fog and disappeared into the deep recesses of the misty mountain.

Rhinoceros Andreas Tsoiutsias ’29

Buck Max Stewart ’29

Pig Bob West ’29

Frog Harrison Moran ’29

Dog

Ethan Shah ’29

(sal-OO-tis-foe-bee-uh)

noun: the fear of safety

Austin Miller ’28

I woke up with a start and shot straight up. My hands were shaking with the excess fear from what I infer was a nightmare. I look around. This isn’t my bedroom, I thought to myself as I speculated a pitch-black forest with several streetlamps all lined up in a row as far as I could see behind me, and I was in the middle of one light. For some reason, even though the last thing I remembered was going to bed, I was in my school uniform.

Suddenly a row of lamps in front of me burst to life, and I saw a body, equally in the middle of the illumination of the streetlight in front of me. He was in the same school uniform I was in. I was scared to get to his motionless body, as he was seemingly far away from me and anything out of the seemingly perfectly symmetrical light from the lamp was as dark as void. I mustered up the courage to go across the black gap, but as I went, I saw movement in what seemed to be the woods next to me. Overwhelmed with fear I ran straight forward and made it into the adjacent lamppost.

“Fix your dumb glasses and SHUT. UP.” Sal•u•tis•pho•bi•a

What the heck was that, I question as my frazzled mind tries to keep up with the current events. While looking around, my attention jolts back to my peer lying still on the ground. As I tapped his unmoving body, I suddenly realized that he was Brayson, my school tormentor. He immediately gets up and swats away from me, the look of annoyance in his eyes was unmistakable.

“The hell are you doing, nerd!?” He said as he gets up away from me. As he looked up, I could see that he froze as he took in the surroundings, his back was lit up in the strong light as he seems petrified, and I got a reminder of how intimidatingly big he was. He’s the star of the tackle football team, and seems to have it out for me for a reason unknown.

He turns back to me, “Where am I, twit?!” he shouted, trying to scare me as his face pierces through the darkness to snap back at me, but I could hear a quiver of fear in his strong, raspy voice. “I s-swear-I don’t know anything more than you do! I just woke up over there,” I pleaded, pointing to the lamppost that I had just ran from.

Suddenly, looking at the electric light, “Wait a second, do you have your phone on you?” I asked with a desperate cling to hope. Brayson’s face lit up as he searches his pockets and pulls out a phone, severely damaged from the times I’ve seen him throw it around carelessly. As he tries to type out his password as quickly as possible, failing several times throughout, I see something move in the lampposts far ahead. It seemed to be a shadow drifting through the lights and coming closer at an alarming rate.

“Brayson, I think something is-”

“Shuddup, nerd!” Brayson interrupts me sucked into the fact that his phone has no service and he was currently trying to fix it.

“Brayson! There’s a shadow and-”

If I wouldn’t have done anything, we both could’ve died, so I take his phone and throw it at the shadow as hard as a scrawny kid like me could. Of course it only landed in the next lamplight.

“What the hell?!” He screams and pushes my face down onto the dirt. He gets up to try to see where his phone landed right as the shadow gets to his face, and they exchange petrifying screams as the shadow vanishes and Brayson falls butt first on the ground.

“… George,” His voice managed to tremble out. “What was that?” The jock asked pitifully and still shaking, showing his weakness by referring to me by my name. Even though I felt sorry for him, my anger helped me tune him out. I then realized that the shadow is as scared of us as we are scared of it! It was that simple! What else could explain its unorthodox fleeing? I piled all my hope into this idea and beckoned the monster with safety washing over me. It got closer, and closer, it was practically there! I wouldn’t listen to the cries of that stupid jock with me when-

an almost indecipherable explanation on how the monster was going to kill us both and I was going to get him killed. The fact that he was the tough, strong one and he was the one that was breaking down and crying, disgusted me. With the shock of falling shortly wearing off thanks to the feeling of anger, I slap Brayson into sense and kick him away from me.

Liam Devlin ‘27

“What was that?! That was our one chance, and you…” I then realized the throbbing pain in my arm, accompanied by a feeling that I had never felt before. It was familiar, yet unrecognizable. I look at the center of the throbbing, my shoulder, to see a wound deep within a withering infection. It was only something that you’d see in fantasies, and it was several layers down into my skin. I suddenly realized that the feeling was pain, and this terrible realization brought me to my knees.

Surprising both Brayson and myself, I did not cry, but instead I insisted upon finding our homes as soon as possible.

“GRAAAAAAAAAH!!!!” I fall to the ground as Brayson hits me with a sorrowful battle cry. He hit me over and over again from a screaming rage that turned into some kind of a crying fit with

“As we saw, it seems as though the shadow can only exist in the light, where there is something to help it interact with the world around it.” I speculated, quivering from the pain I burdened. “We know this from the fact that whenever it goes out of the light, it disappears, and

comes back again in the light. As scary as it may be, out only chance is to go into the dark beyond the lamps.” Brayson understands that this is a life or death situation and chooses to follow me into the darkness side by side out of fear.

As soon as we walked a couple steps, we hit an incline and fall down the steep hill. The sudden fall jerked my senses away and I lost all feeling of where I was. As soon as I hit the bottom, I heard that Brayson had too, and I looked up to see that the hill was as tall as a building, and I knew we couldn’t go back up.

“What do we do now?” Brayson asks, now fully relying on me as hope. “We go farther in until we find something familiar.” I say with I hope at least a bit of bravery and leadership.

The farther we go in, the more strange the trees are, which we manage to make out by the lighter shade of darkness in the night sky. I start to wonder, why would the monster be scared of us if it knows it could kill us easily, referring to the deep scar on my shoulder, which I had not been able to see since we were deep in the darkness. Well, it can’t get us here in the dark, but is the dark really the reason it can’t? Then I realized that I had been shaking the entire time we’ve been in the dark.

“Brayson, what if the monster can only get us when we feel saf-” Suddenly huge lights burst spontaneously where we had been standing. After my eyes recovered from the sudden transition from pitch black to wholesome light, I saw that the football stadium lights were all pointing at an unfamiliar house. I realized that

the grass beneath my feet had been turned into turf in the transition, and so had the weather, which had changed from nothing to a pouring storm, which seemed impossible, but nothing compared that has happened to us prior.

Looking at the house closer, I saw a room with the wall that would be facing us was completely gone. In the room was empty, besides a king-sized bed with two adults sleeping in it. I was hesitant, but Brayson ran towards them shouting “Mom! Dad!” with the happiest tone I’ve ever heard him in. The feeling of safety overwhelmed him, and he didn’t even notice the fact that they both had a gaping, bloody hole in their chests. I tried to warn him, but the moment he stepped twice into that room, the wall reappeared, and with a great thunderclap, the entire stadium disappeared.

What can I feel but remorse and fear, I thought, but I didn’t feel anything, just an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, a familiar feeling that I have felt before. Behind me, I suddenly hear the great clap of spotlights, and I turn around to see my own house, completely illuminated. I see my parents. I turn again, not bearing the thought that they were dead, and ran straight in the other direction. After maybe ten steps I hear the spotlights turn off, so I looked back and saw the house still there, the wall still gone, but my parents vanished.

Then an idea struck me, and I start to run to the house. Mine didn’t disappear like Brayson’s, so I might be able to find a clue, or a way to get out of this crazy mess. I open the door to the hallway and

run into the living room. I realized that I had weapons and toy guns upstairs, which wouldn’t be much, but would make me more defended, so I bolted up the stairs. As I ran through the hall I see my sister’s room’s door open by just a sliver, the lights off. I cautiously slip inside and close the door behind me in fear, and turn on the lights.

There she was. My big sister was in bed, and she was alive. I rush over to give her a hug and start crying, blabbering out all of my predicaments and pains.

“What are you talking about, George? It’s the middle of the night and you’re dressed for school!” She asked for a very good reason, because I was terrible at explaining things. I decide to tell her the bad news first, “Mom, dad, and Brayson are dead.”

“George, stop. You always get like this. Mom and dad are out of town, and you know that Brayson died years ago.”

The entire world seemed to freeze at the moment she said that. I didn’t believe her. I just watched Brayson die, and mom and dad are dead, but my scrambled mind made me put this paradox aside anyway.

“I don’t care, I just need you. You’re the only one I can rely on…”

“Okay, okay. Just remember, you’re safe with me.”

Safe. The word struck me funny as I recall what I had said to Brayson. Brayson, what if the monster can only get us when we feel...SAFE.

I ran. I ran from her. I ran as far away as I could. I need someplace I’ll never feel safe, somewhere where I will always be in fear. Out of my house, down the street, finding all I could to always be in danger. …

I’m walking down the country road at night, a gun held to my head held by none other than myself. I haven’t eaten for the past couple days in fear of finding safety in satisfaction. I hobble down the road into a forest, where everything is pitch black. I force myself to shiver in fear at the sight of the bending, twisting trees, the howls in the distance that meant nothing to me anymore, but they had to, for the sake of my life.

I walk straight into a steep hill and can make out a light on top of it, but I had no care of what I might find, and in the process of sitting, I fall straight onto the ground. Why not pull the trigger now, get it over with? It’s the safest way of dying quickly without pain or torment. No, no. I can’t because…

That would be too safe.

Vin McColm ’29 Foxes

Fox

Myer Ortiz ’30

A fox burrows deep into the ground to feed its kits. Her ears twitch in the stillness of the wilderness. She looks like a flame tearing across the grass with its red-orange color. The sharp, bushy tail looks almost like cotton on the tip.

She flies across the field, almost as silent and swift as the wind around it. The fox’s beady eyes are similar to deep ponds in the dark; If you lock eyes with her, you will find yourself lost in the darkness. You can see how much she cares for her kits, protecting them with her life.

The kits adore their mother; You can see it in their body language, Like how they brush their heads on the fox’s legs, or how they rest around their mom. Anyone can tell they love each other, even on a rainy day.

AT MIDNIGHT

Robert Orchard ’30

Terror at midnight, nightmare figures emerge, Red-eyed, slithering, How very, very eerie, as death begins to approach.

The Wind Still Blows

Dhanvi Indaram ’30

You may feel happy -- celebrating life, But the wind still blows. You may need help -- crumbling inside, But the world still grows. What seems like a big thing to you Is not noticed by the world. When you’re the most important, The minds of others similarly swirl.

Know you’re not as significant as you think, And your humility will glow. You must know that whatever happens, The wind will still blow.

[Night of Howling Storms]

Canon Blackwell ’28

Zephyr ran crying through the trees, And the trees shook at his touch. Birds fled the unearthly thing, What was plaguing the night?

High above in eternal blackness

The orator gathered his crowds. They screamed and cried and shook the skies, With a thunderstorm of night.

Out from below, the dead rose up, Corralled by no dead god. For he feared him who stirred: The ancient, elder night.

He rose, he looked, he shook From his back the soil of centuries. And laughed at the roiling heavens And the trembling trees at night.

He was an ancient terror, a forgotten spirit, Long had he slept in the depths of Etna. Now he rose and smiled and said, “I am returned tonight.”

Sense of Spirits

Bobby Quinn ’25

In the small Texas town of Destiny, hundreds of miles from any other settlement, there is a single road, vaguely lit by the dim yellow light of old streetlamps, and an old tale. The story is believed by the ancient residents and told to every visitor at the worn-down gift shop. It increases sales. A new visitor enters the weary store. An old man with a cracked face and hunched back whispers just above the volume of the wind; this is the story he tells:

Two hundred years ago, when the spread of Americans westward into the wild lands of North America first began, the people feared the bloodstained red dirt of Northwestern Texas and tried with all their might to avoid it. The frightening creatures dwelling in this landscape heightened their suspicion and kept travelers on the toes of their boots. Eventually, one group of settlers, led by brave Kentuckian Ebenezer Smith, ventured into this savage wilderness. Traversing the deep, winding canyons, walls soaked with red and covered in Indian drawings, the wagon train tumbled along. The crackling step of a deer walking over brush, the howling cry of coyotes above the canyon walls at night, the deadly rattle of the snakes, or the shallow rumble of a distant stampede all caused the hairs on the travelers’ backs to stand up. They felt that they were always being watched, for all around them were towering walls—inescapable if something were to happen and able to hide anything in their sharp folds.

The brave pioneers found a slight opening in the canyon, wide enough to settle down for the harsh winter months approaching; something about the gloomy weather over the red jagged earth made them wary of continuing. The small town they erected, unbeknownst to them, was on the site of ancient burial grounds, a holy site for the fearsome Apache tribe. They soon learned about a deep large cave, just around a bend in the walls of the canyon, its mouth agape with sharp teeth on either side beckoning any prey in; the settlers avoided this cave at all costs — rightfully so, for inside resided an angry Indian tribe. On a cold cloudy day in the gloomy winter month of January, the weather just as wretched as they had assumed, as the sun was setting and the earth fell dark, the citizens of the scraggily thrown-together town noticed faint glows of dim light in the distance, flickering like small

flames. Led by the brave Smith, they were fully prepared for something like this. He sensed attack.

Smith led his small cohort in the valley of the canyon walls against the brutal attack of the Indians. What should have been an ambush turned into a lengthy battle, although the savage Indian’s sharp hatchets seemed no match for the dull muskets of the white man. The pioneers were saved by some sanctifying grace,however, and these white settlers prevailed against the Indians. It was a bloody massacre, and only one Indian escaped. Brutally maimed, he managed to crawl his way back into the cave under the cover of darkness, where, later that night, he bled to death.

Before breathing his last breath, the wounded Indian cursed all futures generations of the white settlers living in the town for their cruel disrespect of the ancient grounds and for their massacre of his people. He shouted with all his might an everlasting curse to harm the living descendants for eternity if they did not obey his wishes. The old man with the cracked face paused. His story was complete.

As the sun began to set, the visitor noticed the absence of people roaming the street. People were acting strangely. They were gluing windows shut, nervously checking behind their backs, and, most weirdly, spreading red dirt around the doorways of their homes. The new visitor didn’t understand; he passed it off as a weird local custom. But this was something he would surely regret. As the sun was setting, he heard a shallow rumble in the distance. Looking all around he could see clouds of blood red dust creeping toward the town, blocking out the last rays of the sun. Then, the buildings shook as people inside were slamming doors shut. Now he began to panic, desperately looking for somewhere to hide; he barely noticed the torchy lights glimmering in the distance or the slight hum of Indian war cries inching their way closer toward the town.

He hid in a small closet off the side of a building, hoping he was safe, his eyes plastered on the road ahead through the slits of the creaky, wooden door. He watched as the ghosts of Indians ransacked the town but avoided the homes which had taken precautions. He thought he was safe and had avoided the assault — but he didn’t notice the small shadow growing bigger and bigger as it inched closer and closer to his hiding spot. The shape of the shadow morphed from a blob into that of an Indian chief, with chunks of flesh missing and light shining through where it should not. As it got closer, the visitor felt a strange calm — until the ghost ripped the door off the hinges and grabbed him. Then the world faded to black.

The Wrath of the Lake

George Saliga ’25

In January, men barred the waves from the shore, creating a barrier of boulders to preserve their little park. Constantly, the swooning waves thunder down upon the rocks, the pressure of the water coursing between the boulders up to the edge of the sidewalk. The waves no longer fold over on themselves, gilding over soft sand with a glimmering foam. Now they only batter against the limestone, slowly turning the great boulders into sand once again. In a gap between the rocks stretches a bridge which extends out into Lake Michigan, giving a panoramic view of the place. The wind blows fiercely at the edge of that boardwalk; it whips your hair across your face, peltering you with a cold mist. Underneath

Coastline Cub Gerber ’25

are slats through which can be seen the water, forever raging, often frothing over the lip in anger.

To the east are numerous old factories. Clouds of smoke attempt to obscure the hideous hunks of pipe and rusted metal imbedded along the coast. A gas flare, emitting a ruddy orange, can be seen burning among the rust, like an Olympic torch worn away by the passage of time. Visitors to the park never look to the east if they can avoid it, for it is a hideous sight to behold. The real beauty is to the west, where emerges the skyline of Chicago, with various structures sparkling like gems on the horizon. It is prettier than the most perfect cluster of stalagmites, which hide in the dark, for the glass towers glimmer under the beaming rays of the sun. It is such a spectacular view which rouses the envy of the waves.

The lake never used to be so turbulent; before the park was constructed, it was placid. However, the people no longer come to the coast to admire the lake; now they come to marvel at the work of their own hands, their beloved Chicago. Such arrogance would not go unpunished by the lake, which has garnered the strength of an ocean. Though it bashes against the boulders, it does not yet have the audacity to wipe out the little park, because then it would uproot its fellow trees, whom it is supposed to nourish with its very lifeblood. No, the lake is still merciful enough to spare its kin. Instead of demolishing the park, it pulls away people one by one, swallowing any who fear not its strength into an undertow. If a man fights against the might of the tide, he will surely perish, for not even Leander could survive the Hellespont during the storm. One might perchance be spared if he submits to the pull of the current, for then, after the lake has beaten and spat upon the man, it may release him from its grip once again. Woe to the man who respects not the power of the lake, and who places his admiration upon the works of man.

IVID VIVIDMEMORIE MEMORIES

VIVID MEMORIES

Tomas Parra ’30

The wind ruffles my hair as I stand by her grave, Those many vivid memories on my mind. The times I think about how I could save That one girl whose light always shined

I did what I could—I try to agree, That this isn’t my fault, And yet it pains me— like a wound with salt

I go back in time to that fateful day, I wish I could move not stand and watch, But I know this game—and it’s one I don’t want to play, I wish I could change it even just by one notch.

I can see her crying over her loved one, I reach out towards her calling her name, She tries to save him, but she knows he’s done, I try to save her but it’s always the same.

My words never leave my mouth, They wouldn’t have reached her ears. This was all going to go south, And reach the apex of my fears.

The crying had stopped, I knew what happened next She let go of his head—it flopped, And stepped to the cliff as if she were vexed.

I fought with all my soul I fought against my chains I fought to reach my goal I pulled against my strains

I cried out to God in my distress, I was getting punished for many a sin. That is the reason I’m in this mess, That thought sent a shiver through my skin. through

“There is no god on earth!” I said. I raved and screamed, and pushed and fought. The battle of wills inside my head, But I knew it was all for naught.

As she stepped closer to the edge, I fought harder and raved into the sky, “I have to save her; I made a pledge!” But even she knew that her time was nigh.

I questioned God’s power once again, “If you’re so mighty save my daughter, Please Lord, help my daughter to regain, Her senses and not end this in slaughter.”

My efforts turned to rage and spite I tried to push my way to the edge But I knew I could not win this fight. But I still aimed for that ledge

She looked down at the rocks below And saw a way to join her friend At first, she started off slow But then she started to descend

In all life’s cruelty this was the worst, Allowing me to witness my own daughter’s death, After she left the ground, I was no longer cursed, Once again it left me to see her last breath.

I crawled to the edge to see her form, Facing up towards me with those eyes, Whirling up inside of me was a storm Full of longing, rage, and sighs.

I feel the tear roll down my cheek, I sob and pound into the ground I can still feel the tear where it left its streak I visit here every day; the place where she drowned.

I remember her face, eyes closed in peace, Like she wasn’t dead; just asleep. I hope she’s not in pain; her torments cease. I tossed her friend in to join her in the deep.

Finally, the curse had released its hold,

But I’m still thinking about the girl I couldn’t save, I’m back in the graveyard, and the cold

These vivid memories will haunt me to the grave.

Nobody knows where she was buried In the water of the scree where the dark things scurry She and her friend are serried At the bottom of the scree with not a single worry.

A Tiny Conversation

Cameron

Allen ‘30

There once were seven mice, Talking in the street.

I’ll tell you what they said As it was told to me.

Said the First to the Second, “What is that awful smell?”

Said the Second to the First, “It’s oatmeal made very well.”

Said the Third to the First, “I’d like some honey in my tea.”

Said the Second to the Third, “Then go and find a bee.”

Said the Fourth to the Fifth, “You’ve grown a lot of hair.”

Said the Fifth to the Fourth, “Have you noticed I don’t care?”

Said the Sixth to the First, “I do believe I smell it too!”

Said the Seventh to the others, “I’ve just been to the loo!”

Said the First to the Second, “I told you it was real!”

Said the Second to the First, “I was eating my morning meal.”

Said the Seventh to the others, “Do quiet all your yells!” “Why?” said the others. “I can hear the kitty bells!”

Said the others to the Seventh, “Your old and hard of hearing.”

Said the Cat to all of them, “Tasty morsels for my eating!”

Said the Seventh to the rest, “Run away! Run away!”

“Too late!” said the Cat And he ate them anyway.

Liam Devlin ‘27 Calvin and Hobbes

Drink of the Gods

They rowed on. Sweat beat on brows, arms ached under the stress, yet eyes stayed bent on the horizon. The little boy opened his mouth but did not dare to speak. He let them row on.

At last the men paused, and the little boy could no longer restrain his curiosity.

“What will happen if we drink the drink of the gods?” he asked.

“Some say we will become immortal.”

“Like the Hindus! Are we going to drink the Soma juice?”

“Others say we will become divine.”

“Like the Greeks! Can I be the first to taste the ambrosia?”

Santiago Barajas ’24

“Others say they have drunk it. But those three who drank it died.”

The little boy went silent. He had heard the Arthurian tales of the Holy Grail, but he had not known that Sir Galahad, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors had not survived. A frown creeped onto his innocent face. They rowed on.

“But didn’t King Arthur never die?”

“He went to the isle of Avalon, where his body remains to this day. His mentor, Merlin, also never died. He was trapped under the earth in a cave by the lady Nimue.”

“But they never drank from the Grail?”

They rowed on.

“So why are we looking for the drink of the gods?”

The man did not respond. They rowed on. They were past the Pillars of Achilles, nearing the world beyond the sun.

Before long, the boy took the oars and began to row.

Then one morning, far out on the horizon, he saw Death blow a kiss at him. Behind him there was a party. At the nearest table sat the Hindus, but he did not see the Vedic writer. Opposite them sat the Greeks, but Hercules and Psyche were not at table with the Olympian gods. And there was no Round Table, and the boy did not see Sir Galahad, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors. Still, they rowed on.

But the scent of the river Lethe smelled like Death’s kiss. The boy stopped rowing, but the men did not lose sight of the horizon. The boy warned and prayed, but the men would not listen. At length, the boat reached the shore. Before them loomed a large mountain.

Death strolled up, and with an outreached hand offered them a cup. Each man took a sip in turns, but the boy looked at the men and asked, “Why are we looking for the Drink of the gods?”

The men did not respond.

When Death offered him the cup, the boy turned his back and rowed away.

Back came the boat that Odysseus rowed to Hell.

Peter Seiwert ’27 Koi

Fishin’ Chuck Style

Charlie Kobdish ’25

Chuck picked the spot where the river narrowed.

Hoping to haul from the white caps rising

A few fish salmon found appetizing.

Resting on the stump a beaver hollowed,

Leaders hooked and bobbers sank all day long.

If he died here it’d no lessen his luck.

Every day reminds him that Chuck ‘s old school method of baiting can’t do wrong.

Song for a Highway Sidewalk Will Edwards ’25

To the reader:

The majority of this poem was written with a used-up pencil I found on the ground.

Go then, write your letters

Write me a story I’ve heard a thousand times before A thousand times or maybe more

Then, standing atop your desk, shout out to the world

Proclaim the glory of your work

We know better Sing, sing me a song

Please, sing on

My contorted face, my desperate pleas for respite

Are not indicative of anything

You have such a pretty voice

Please, sing on

Go then, write your letters

Even if the dead will never read them

Nor will they ever rise to respond

Are you stupid?

The dead are gone forever

Even a child knows this

We, the ones you pass in the hallway

We, the ones you’ve nearly forgotten

Disciples of Ahab and Lennon

We wish we could say that we are many,

But indeed, there was only ever one Aim-sick, disciple-ridden

And now for the refrain:

Go then, write your letters

Just don’t write them to me

Believe when I say this: I won’t read them

I won’t open them

But write them all the same

Owen Hanna ‘30 Abstract Study in Purple

ABBEY OF ST. WULFRIC

Robert Orchard ’30

Charles rushed through the Abbey of St. Wulfric and down the large hill that the abbey was perched upon. He stopped halfway down the hill to take a small set of reed pipes from his pocket. They had been a gift from the monks when they had first arrived at the abbey. Charles tried not to think about that. He and his two friends, Benedict and Ambrose, had each come from different states and, after meeting right at the border of the United States and Canada, packed with their parents into a minivan and drove to the abbey. The boys had been invited to stay for the summer because they had a lot in common, not to mention that each had an uncle who was a monk at St. Wulfric’s. Charles was filled with that dreaded feeling again as he remembered... hearing about the car crash, deciding to stay with his only relative, his uncle. Benedict and Ambrose had made similar decisions. That was five years ago, when Charles was seven. He had not left the abbey grounds since—except for hikes in the mountains that surrounded the abbey.

He forced this reminiscence down, picked up the reed pipes, and played a series of notes. This alerted his friends that he had important news and to meet at their most common rendezvous spot. He was approaching the old fir forest, looking for the small maple sapling. It was a mystery to them how it ever got there, almost in the exact middle of a several square-mile fir forest, completely obscured from view by many surrounding massive evergreens. He arrived slightly out of breath to find Ambrose already there, reading. Several minutes later Benedict arrived.

“So, what’s the news?” asked Ambrose.

“Basically, long story short, I heard my uncle joking with Fr. Patrick about a passage,” Charles replied, “ an underground passage.” After he said this the boys talked for a minute or so, then they each took off in the same general direction. Ambrose was looking in the gardens and outside around the abbey property, Benedict was searching in the main entrance way, church, crypt, and sacristy, and Charles was searching in the library and the living area for the monks as best he could without arousing too much suspicion. Benedict found nothing amiss in the main entrance. Next, he moved into the church to find nothing wrong either. The same went for the crypt. He let out a sigh and made his way to the sacristy.

Meanwhile Ambrose had not had better luck. He had already managed to get stung seven times by a wasp as he was searching the abbey garden, looking for some indication of an entrance to a passage.

Four hours later all the boys, exhausted and, in Ambrose’s case, stung by wasps and bitten by ants, returned to their room before vespers. Their room was tidy with a desk and a dresser on the left side and a set of triple bunk beds on the right. While the room was small in perimeter, the ceiling was remarkably high. The desk had several large shelves and drawers with a flat desktop. The drawers contained Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings plus animal and plant identification guides for the local flora and fauna along with other miscellaneous. In the bottom most drawer, there was a copy of The New American Bible for each of them. Filling the shelves above the desk were many religious books,

from apologetics to biographies of the Saints. None of the books on these shelves were theirs but rather all belonged to the massive Catholic library that was in the abbey. Every time either the monks or the boys got a new book, they put it in the library. On top of their desk was a typewriter, for they had to get permission and were rarely allowed to use the library computer. Next to the typewriter was a trophy from The North American Catholicism Quiz Bowl, a tournament usually meant for four people but won by the three of them.

The next morning the three friends rose at the sound of their alarm at five o’clock sharp and, after each making their beds, walked to this orderly desk. They each automatically reached for a religious book from one of the shelves. Ambrose quickly grabbed a book that he had gotten from the library the day before and handed it to Benedict and said, “Quiz me please.”

Benedict obliged and soon he was asking Ambrose questions at a rapid rate. Charles let his mind wander thinking about this so called ‘passage.’ Maybe he had understood it the wrong was or maybe-

“Who was the second pope?” Benedict’s words cut into his thoughts bringing him quickly back into reality.

“St. Linas,” Ambrose replied swiftly with a bored tone of voice.

“You asked me to quiz you,” Benedict replied only slightly annoyed.

“Then maybe you should quiz me without the book.”

“Fine, but what kind of questions?”

“Let’s go extremely difficult questions over popes of the Middle Ages.”

Charles let his mind wander again but then was quickly brought back to reality by yet another conversation. It was his uncle’s voice carrying down the hall. He started and crept down the hall.

“Should we talk in your room, Father Abbot?” the voice of Fr. Louis murmured.

“It would be better to meet in your cell, if you know what I mean. We would not want to arouse suspicion.” For this last part his uncle lowered his voice significantly.

It was unusual for the monks to be up this early unless they had something important to do or— suddenly several things fell into place almost at once. Charles crept back into his room and in a stage whisper said,“I’ve got it!”

“The major accomplishments of Pope Gregory VI?” Benedict asked.

“That too but (here he paused to shut the door), I think I know where the passage is.”

That evening they were ready to make their move. They each had their small set of reed pipes for sending messages.

Earlier that day, after lunch, Ambrose and Benedict had come back more quickly than the other monks to see if one of their many theories was true. Their theory, which was that an air vent that was at the junction of the two halls of the living corridors connected to an air vent in the abbot’s room, proved to be correct. They could not have asked for a better set up.

Fourteen of the seventeen monks were going hiking north of the abbey. Each of the boys chose to stay and “study.” The plan was for Charles to go into the abbot’s room, Benedict to stand at the place where the two corridors met where he could communicate with Charles through the vent, and Ambrose to be at the start of the first corridor so he could signal with Benedict. Ambrose played

the notes telling Benedict everything was good. Charles, who had been standing with Benedict, started to walk down the corridor.s When he reached the door of the abbot’s room, he opened the door and searched with great fervor, so much so that he did not hear Benedict’s signal that someone was coming.

Charles heard footsteps coming down the hall. He quickly ducked behind the door hoping that he would not be discovered. The door swung open slightly as he heard Fr. Patrick’s voice say, “Father Abbot?” Then Fr. Patrick must have realized that his uncle, Fr. George, was on the hike. He left. Charles’ heart beat uncontrollably fast as he played the signal on his reed pipes notifying Benedict that everything was all right. Then he had another thought and he jogged down the hall to Benedict who, at seeing Charles emerge from the abbot’s cell, had beckoned to Ambrose to join them.

“Okay guys,” Charles began, “I know that this sounds crazy, but what if this secret passage is under my uncle’s bed?”

The three boys made haste toward the room of the abbot and, after shutting the door, moved the bed without a moment’s hesitation. The room consisted only of a small desk with a chair tucked into it and the bed. The walls were bare save for an ornamental key that was looped onto a piece of metal that was screwed into the wall. It was said to be the key to the abbey gates but it had never been tested since all the monks used electronic key fobs to open the abbey gates. Under the bed was a trap door with a lock that was big as Charles’ fist. The boys looked at each other and then Charles ran out of the room. In several minutes he was back, holding a screwdriver. He was easily the best of the three boys when it came to tools. Charles talked to the others as he set to work unscrewing the four screws that secured the lock, “It is very clever that this is screwed in. Most

people (here he glanced at Ambrose) would just pull the key either off the metal ring or the whole thing out of the wall. Both of these mistakes would be obvious with a mere glance.”

As the last screw came undone, the key fell with a clang and the three boys winced simultaneously. They waited several minutes to see if anyone was coming; when no one did, they unlocked the trap door. There was a large drop and Charles nearly fell into it. Ambrose, the tallest (though all three boys were about the same height) and the best at climbing, without a second thought, jumped into the hole just as Benedict was feeling around for another way to get down. His efforts were rewarded when he found a metal ladder attached to the side of the passage. He began to climb down, and Charles followed him. Charles took care to move the bed as well as he could over the trap door. Hopefully, this would fool anyone who looked in — at least temporarily. When Charles and Benedict came to the bottom of the passage which ran about fifteen feet below the main abbey, they found Ambrose, unhurt, fumbling for something in his pockets. He, finding it, drew out a small bag. Ambrose pulled out a small flashlight, about the size of a small glue stick. He switched it on, and a light so bright filled the passage that they could see at least thirty feet into the passage. About three feet in front of them was a gate of metal bars several inches thick. It was locked, and though they tried shaking it and using the large key, their efforts were to no avail.

The three boys discussed this and then agreed to send Benedict back up. He searched for several minutes then called to Ambrose in a faint voice to bring him the ornamental key. Ambrose obliged, making great haste. Benedict reached under the bed with the key then pulled out a drawer with a lock on it. The drawer contained seven keys! Benedict, hearing footsteps, quickly shut the drawer and ducked into the open trap door after

Ambrose, pulling the bed back over the door. The boys approached the first gate, rummaging through the keys to find the best fit. Charles found it and the boys again advanced. The walls were linear, and the ground was covered with rectangular sandstones. The boys continued through the passage, encountering six additional gates, until they came to an eighth gate. At a loss, the boys stopped; then Benedict rushed back to a small bulge in the wall and smote it with his fist. It gave way and inside were three keys. The boys paused after they unlocked the eighth gate while Ambrose showed his flashlight down the new passage. It was only about fifteen feet long. Three gates. The next two gates they passed with ease; then they came up to the eleventh gate; it was was shorter than the other gates. The other gates were nine feet tall in a ten-foot-tall passage. This gate was only about five feet leaving ample room between it and the roof. The lock was not that of a padlock but rather a combination lock. The boys, one by one, climbed over the short gate, then turned the corner.

“There is no literal way this is the real thing,” Ambrose said. In front of them was what appeared to be The Ark of the Covenant!

Charles answered, “But then why would they go to so much trouble to keep it hidden?” Suddenly, Benedict hushed them all; soon the other boys heard it too. A dull scraping that could only be someone moving the abbot’s bed.

“Quick,” Ambrose told Benedict “Find a key that will lock a door as far away from here as you can.”

“Okay, but I might have dropped most of the keys,” came the reply.

Benedict locked the eighth door and so the boys sat waiting on the other side. Soon, Fr. George, Fr. Patrick, and Fr. Louis came rushing in.

“Stop! Charles, Benedict, and Ambrose! I warn you

— I am armed!” His uncle produced a handgun. It looked ancient but a gun all the same. “I have three bullets here, so don’t move a muscle. You were about to steal what is rightfully ours.” Each of the monks put on a mask as Fr. Louis produced a can of knock out gas and sprayed it sinisterly.

Charles jerked awake. He was in his room; he checked the beds above and below him. Both Benedict and Ambrose were still out. He slowly got out of bed and walked into the hall. There were sounds coming from the dining room. He walked in and found the monks having dinner, all the monks except Fr. Louis, Fr. George, and Fr. Patrick!

It took a while for Charles to make sense of all the praise; he caught only snatches of the story but finally heard the entire tale. After this he went back to his room and found Benedict just waking up and Ambrose still sleeping. Ambrose suddenly shot awake, and Charles told them everything that had happened. The three monks, Fr. Louis, Fr. Patrick and Fr. George, had been hiding The Ark of the Covenant. When several of the novices overheard pieces of their covert conversations, they went to a senior monk and, after getting his approval, went into the passage. They arrived just in time to stop the three senior monks from harming the boys. The monks were sent to jail; The Ark of the Covenant would be shipped to Israel. And so, the boys set out for midday prayer.

Editor’s note: This story is part of a larger mystery series that Robert is developing.

Across from the Fourth Hole

George Saliga ’25

“I dying,” quivered the voice of my grandfather as he limply held my dad’s hand. “I know… that’s why we’re here.” Instead of urging Grandpa to fight like he had for the past three months, my dad assured him that we were ready to let him go. I sat there, staring out the window at the fourth hole of the golf course, which was surrounded by a pond gilded with silver by the December sun. A lady with a hot-pink hat lined up her putt, oblivious to what was happening across the pond, over the picket fence, within the cozy-looking home. Today was just like any other day at Grandpa’s house; the only difference was that this time I was talking about my week to a dying man. He could barely speak; he just stared blankly at the ceiling listening to how my basketball games went and about the next day’s math test. Those were the last things I spoke to him about. I found that there can be a simplicity in death. As we recited a divine mercy chaplet by the side of his bed, I didn’t pray for a miraculous recovery; I simply asked God to let my grandfather be at peace. He fell unconscious at the conclusion of that prayer and never woke up again. Sometimes miracles are mundane.

Henry Folmnsbee ’25 Great Blue Heron

E-flat Major

She didn’t know I thought about her so much or that I jumped inside every time she glanced over or called out my name. How can I describe her? She was like nothing anyone else has ever been and can never be sorted into a measly category. Her face was like a polished diamond—no, like a teardrop of rosy quartz; opalescent, opaque, and narrowed to a point at her chin. Her hair had that property that the tips pointed inward, long dark gossamer threads that shook and swayed with the movement of her slim frame. Her mouth was always in a smile, thin yet full, and she had lips like the strokes of a calligrapher—pronounced, yet never to stare at. Her nose was like a little note heard over the rest, or a little point in the smooth canvas that was her face. The true point of focus on her lovely face was her eyes. Her eyes were like a pool of ink from a pen that bled out in pining.

Canon Blackwell ’28

A pianist sits down at his beloved and cruel mistress, the piano. His body was still a young one, but his soul was wizened with age. He turns on his lamp and warms up his fingers. The piano, mistress that she is, snaps at him, trips his fingers, and then settles down into the passive instrument of his affections as he walks his fingers up to a single note. He listens for a moment, waiting to see if his mistress will interrupt him, then plays the chord along with this note. It is an E-flat chord.

When she walked in the door that day, the girls had been whispering amongst themselves of a prophecy— a foretelling of the relationship that would come for the two of us—and so when she walked in, I blushed furiously, smiled, and did that thing that all awkward boys do—avoid looking at her too much. I greeted her graciously, with a smile that mirrored her beautiful face and bright expression at seeing me. We talked, and I began to take note of her personality. That personality, paired with the opening notes, gives

They were like twin moons of brown ink, with soft bovine eyelashes, curving singly up and noticed only by those who saw her right, like the hidden melody in a nocturne or a deeper meaning in a text. And yet, this was only her outside, her façade, her alabaster coat; it was but the flat colors of the work, the opening note, the one note in our key out of eight that starts the piece off. It was but the E-flat.

a harmony of thirds, a quavering one —one that does not know if its destiny is the eerie C minor or the airy E-flat major. It was G, added to the E-flat.

The pianist continues, scratching out a poor sequence of chords, trying to capture the perfect image of some idea in his long unused heart. He plays that E-flat chord, then lightly touches the bold B-flat dominant chord. He slights, then returns to a C minor. This resonates back to a stony G-sharp major, then the B-flat strikes again, and takes him back to the start, at an airy E-flat. He plays his progression again and then stops to figure out a simple melody.

She was not perfect, but she had that charism of a girl who strives to be kind, to be glanced at and given a wave. She was meek and docile, yet bold and strong at the same time. She was not a gossiper, nor was she vulgar—but she had that natural ability, whether she knew it or not, to fit in with whatever group she happened to be found with. If a group of girls poked at the other boys, she could joke with a flexible nature and be able to turn it around to fit in with a ragamuffin group of awkward boys. She mirrored those around her, but to a temperate extent—I never once saw her get in trouble, not once in all my years, albeit few, of knowing her.

She would laugh, and smile, and whip my poor soul with the wit of a sharp switch. She wouldn’t be too mean, too tolerant, too boyish, nor too coy—she would be the girl I knew to have a crush on. This was not the end, either. I’m just getting to the height of my poor little mockup of a description of her. This was but a scratching, a shaving of the rosy quartz that made her skin, and was only the end of the opening theme. Next comes the exposition, in which her beautiful hymn of being is taken up a fifth, so when we return to my crotchety theme, I may resolve on the one chord that describes my happiness in her—the kindest chord, the light, meek, springtime chord. A lovely E-flat major.

The pianist rests his hands on the keys, giving them time to think after the melody that he has just refined into a progression. He sighs, counts the keys, and begins to play a new set of chords. C minor leads with a lustful tune, then F minor, G minor, and back to C minor. G-sharp major lulls into a teetering B-flat major, resolving back to our very own E-flat major. The pianist plays his original tune again, then strikes into a G minor progression. The exposition has begun.

I have told you how she appeared, how she acted, and how this situation came to be. The next order of business is the great connection itself, the moment that I thought I was truly alongside her, that I could be close to her. Little did I know what was to come. The exposition, of course, leads to the moment where it all comes together and rushes on in an intricate and intimate closeness. In this, this unsure closeness, lies the hope that someday, it might all work out...

It was that same day when she had walked in the door, and I had greeted her politely and as kindly as I could have. I had been sitting with a few girls, talking about all the things that girls talk about. Was this odd, a boy like me among the girls? Sitting there with the prophets whose visionary words were of relationship verdicts, witty nicknames, and above all, who liked whom. I was being myself, funny yet odd, and was laughing at the humorous names that the two prophets had produced... throwing sidelong glances at her (her whom I loved). I was wittily responding to one of their unimportant and many jibes when I flipped out my hand in mock condescension. This, I thought, was clear. It was the generic symbol one gives when he is sarcastically remarking, right? Apparently not. She

must have mistaken my generic gesture as an invitation, to decide what our relationship was. In any case, she set her delicate ivory hand in mine. I was astounded, infatuated, confirmed, and head over heels in love all at once. I had never had such a creature do this to me, save my sisters and mother. In that moment, I had taken the hand of a beautiful hymn, a girl, and it stunned me. There she was, letting herself to me. I held her hand for a moment, then dropped it. I had seen her in two parts— beauty outside and in. And she sounded still like a chord—E-flat major. The chords have resolved, the exposition is complete. The pianist wonders what to do next. He plays the opening theme again, and reinforces his chord progressions with octaves and harmonies, beginning the tedious, lengthy, yet fruitful process of turning a tune into a song. E-flat, B-flat, C minor, G-sharp. He adds some rhythmic base movements, and some decorative ornamentation. He refines his playing into true music. All in the chord of E-flat.

I had written her a letter, which held both professions of love, poetic descriptions, and contemplations of relationship, much like this slapdash writing. I told her I had something for her, left it atop her bag, then made

my quick retreat to let her do with it what she would—from my friends who were with her I learned that my epistle was so charged with emotion that she had cried upon reading it. Imagine my distress at this, in the car going home, and my frantic texting to her, asking if she was all right and apologizing for whatever I had done. Imagine my relief when she said it was all right and there was no need to apologize. Imagine the suspense in the air when I unsurely asked if the feeling was mutual— Imagine the elation when, two minutes later, she delightedly replied with a yes. She had said yes! Under the rose quartz and the beautiful pink-gold personality were feelings of love—feelings for me!

The unsociable, quirky, affable chunk of granite that I was. I had done nothing to deserve her affection. I was a beloved of music. I was beloved of E-flat major.

I think back to when I held her hand for the first time, and later when we confirmed each other’s affections. Still, I do not know what is to come, or what the future holds. For now, we simply wish good for each other and work to make each other’s lives better. I know I love her, and she loves me – we will survive together. I had seen the near future, and the ancient past in the same moment. I had brushed my crude awl into the pink marble of love. It was a thing of the far future, yet also a divine

entity of the distant past. All through her lens, one of full and elemental E-flat major.

The pianist sat, contemplating the end of his little tune. He plays an E-flat chord with a low base, then turns it minor, then plays it again, touching the keys to suit his hand. He hums the melody to himself; then he compares what little music he has played to the orchestral masterwork that was the love in his youth. The pianist then remembered the moments that he had shared with her, the love that had blossomed between them, and the future that had awaited him. He smiled, as her form perfectly fit the E-flat that he had just played. It was her, wasn’t it? Coming back to say hello, hello, goodbye. A single falling star fell from his eye. He remembered her name. It played and danced on his tongue and left a sweet taste in his mouth. He said it aloud, and then he said it again. He chuckled and sighed and wept for her, and all the while played his song. A “Fantasy in E-flat,” he christened it. “A Song for Her,” he secretly sang to it. “A Love Long Lost”, he choked on it. Then the old-souled pianist got up and raised his hand to the desk lamp. He sighed and whispered to no one in particular— “Goodnight.” Out went the light.

No Ordinary Town

Calico, Washington, was no ordinary town. Nestled in an idyllic northwestern fjord, the mountains surrounding the town are said to be greener than the finest emeralds, and the mellow Pacific’s deep blue could be likened only to the planet Neptune. Though the sun seldom shared its full warmth with Calico, the cloudy gray sky still provided enough light in the day; in the night, the moon and stars proved a somber lantern for the various sojourners of the Olympic Range.

Riley Murphy ’25

One such traveler was Noah DeMarco. A man of perhaps twenty years, he came from Bellevue to camp for the weekend, for he wanted to get out of the city one last time before the winter months made it impossible; snow tended to pile up in the various mountain passes and campsites he would frequent. Coming to a familiar clearing on the side of a taller mountain, he perceived the outline of a small town, maybe 1000 feet in the pinkish-peach sunset. Slightly confused, the amateur mountaineer examined a map of this particular part of the Washington coast. After scrupulously examining the map, which he always kept in his backpack, he wondered how he (and seemingly the cartographers of this particular map) had missed such an obvious town. He was certain he was on the right path, as he had taken it tens of times before, but this mystery town was entirely new to him. He could see the golden street lights flicker to life in the distance and resolved to investigate.

As he descended the mountain, shrouded by the massive conifers, he felt drops of rain begin to fall. At first, they were light and sporadic, but as the thunderclaps sounded louder and louder, the meager sprinkles evolved into a windy maelstrom. Noah hurried down the mountain, guided by nothing but his hands in front of him and an occasional glimpse at the yellow lights emanating from the town. Behind him, he heard at least one tree fall; the various forest noises he had come to love, now seemed to him a sign of imminent doom and as such, onward toward the light he hurried.

At a certain point, however, it all stopped: the rain, the thunder, the loud noises behind him all stopped in unison. Above Noah, majestic northern lights flanked by an army of stars gave him perfect vision toward his target, the illuminated mystery town. Noah was still in a state of adrenaline-fueled panic, but as he realized the change in weather, he quickly calmed down. At long last, he reached the town which had occupied his mind so fervently

As he walked down what appeared to be main street, he sensed something uncanny about the otherwise jolly place. It looked and felt like a normal town, and a cozy one at that. Colorful buildings lined the road, with every storefront one would expect in a small country town. As he passed the general

store, one of the only places which still appeared to be open, it dawned on him. There were no people in this mystery town. Consequently, Noah figured that, if nothing else, he could catch some nice rest inside the quaint store, so he hurried toward the door. Just as he had almost reached it, he ran into something invisible and heard the voice of an annoyed man shouting,

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, kid.”

“He- Hello?” a startled Noah responded.“Can’t you see? I was walking down the sidewalk and you ran into me,” the man responded, annoyed.

“Uh, sorry sir,” Noah said, “I really didn’t mean to hit you. I just, uh, forgot to put my contacts in.”

The man grumbled, but seemed to continue on, at least as far as Noah could tell. He stood on the sidewalk for a second, contemplating what his best course of action was when out of nowhere a recognizable voice called out,

“Noah! How did you get here?” Noah turned and saw his grandmother, albeit a version of her in her twenties or thirties, complete with attire from the time.

“Come here, darling!” she exclaimed, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” She grabbed him by the wrist and led him to what he guessed was her home. Much too stunned to speak and clueless of what else to do, he followed.

“I’m sure you’ve had a long day. You should get some rest,” she said calmly while pointing to an antique couch. Noah sat on the couch, for some reason unable to speak, and seeing this, she turned off the lights and left the room. Noah drifted off to sleep.

He woke up the next day, spoke to his grandmother briefly, then hurried out of the house and town, but not before reading the sign outside of city hall, which read: CITY OF CALICO, WA. Then, returning exactly as he had come, Noah journeyed across the Washington coast and returned home safely.

When he got home, immediately after calling his mother and father to tell them he made it home safely, he googled “Calico, WA,” a query which led him to a Wikipedia article describing an ordinary Washington town. As he reached the bottom of the article he came across one intriguing sentence: “Calico was destroyed completely in 1963 when a landslide from the mountain above pushed the town into the ocean.” Calico may have appeared an ordinary town, Noah thought, but in reality, what he had experienced was anything but ordinary.

Eddie Maurer ‘25 Wilderness

Rain’s Song of Death

Marc Maalouf ’25

March 17, 1894

“. . . and when the rain started falling,” said the native, who was now waving his arms, evidently agitated about something, “that’s when that horrifying creature came out, taking two of our men and most of our supplies.” The other men at the bar chuckled and shook their heads, blaming his agitation on the unfounded superstitions of the native Tarahumaras in the area. I was convinced our guide had simply seen a large wolf. I trudged off to bed, knowing our party had a long day of travel ahead.

April 7, 1894

We’ve been traveling for about 12 days without the reprieve of a tavern or trading post and our supplies are dwindling. However, the men are in high spirits as they appreciate the nature around us. The sun shines bright with the occasional cloud allowing for reprieve from the relentless rays, the hues of vibrant purple flowers stand out in the otherwise desolate terrain, and our caravan is constantly trailed by an entourage of bright blue birds which protect us like a flock of angels as we traverse Guadalupe Peak. Our Tarahumara guides have caused us no trouble so far, although we have seen some Apache war parties off in the distance—just never close enough to truly worry our exploration.

April 24, 1894

Our guides have become restless, but we cannot be sure why. We have drawn to the outskirts of a sacred place for the Tarahumara people, but I don’t see what’s so sacred about this plateau. The birds, our vigilant guards, have disappeared. The ground has devolved into barren rock; far off we can see a reprieve from the relentless sun we’ve faced for the last few weeks as a storm cloud approaches.

April 27, 1894

The storm has hit our camp like a battering ram. We were forced to set up our tents hastily last night, without the help of our Tarahumara guides who fled immediately as the downpour began. I pray that our God does not abandon us to the whims of the storm at hand. Outside I hear the snarl of a beast, and a flash of lightning reveals a horrible shadow outside, tearing apart a bag of supplies. I cower under my blankets as I write this, praying that morning will come.

April 28, 1894

With morning’s arrival return the birds, the guardians who abandoned us in our time of direst need. Having opened my tent, I must admit it took me a moment to recover from the shocking sight in front of me. Lying on the ground in front of me was the bloody, tattered remains of one of our Tarahumara guides who had faithfully stayed with us through the night. The other natives were discovered huddled together in the distance, muttering about some “kimera” or “chaimera,” although I am not well versed in their language, so perhaps I’m mishearing. We have decided to return to more civilized lands as soon as possible.

These testaments, supported by three other men on the mission and thus not disprovable, are in accord with the native traditions of the area, and should be heeded by all who dare enter the area.

Cameron Allen ’30 A Place of Rest

THE MATCH Andrew Eaton ’31

People all around Were ready for the match. Flags were flying high, Above the roofs of thatch.

Pierson brave and smart, fighting from the south.

Hawk upon his shield, Known by word-of-mouth.

Matched against the sailor, Who styles his hair with care. King of all the seas, Treasure, he hates to share.

Jousting for a prize

Marriage with a bride. Pretty princess Rosaline Cheering from the side.

Pierson’s horse of white Was the greatest steed. Trained by the best, He would fulfill the need.

Nathan’s horse of black Was known across the land. Not for skill in war

But for being banned.

The stands were full of people. The duke then rang his bell.

Quiet in the crowd

Waiting for the yell.

“Let the match begin”, Heard across the stands. Charging down the field Lances in their hands.

Pierson strikes his foe, Nathan hits the ground. Trumpets sound aloud, The winner is crowned.

Pierson will be the Prince, People of Galma rejoice. Pretty princess Rosaline Approves of the choice.

The Story of aRishabhBook

Rengarajan ‘25

He flipped the last page of the book that he was reading. Seconds later, it lay on the floor, its cover torn off and crumpled. Glancing at the image of a mournful boy on the ripped paper, the young schoolboy hurriedly jumped up and shuffled away, leaving the rumpled pages of the book on the floor.

“Stupid book,” he muttered in disgust and anger, as he stomped to his room and slammed the door shut, leaving the lights off. It was dark and he felt miserable and upset by that book. He shouldn’t have read it, but he did, and now he regretted it.

Hours later, the boy decided entirely to destroy the book. As he opened his door and moved through the house back to the torn-up book, covered always by a great hanging darkness, he did not know why he wanted so badly to get rid of the little paperback. But perhaps its destruction would bring him some

repose. Picking up the book, the boy suddenly heard the wails of the child on the cover, the book’s protagonist, ring out. In fright he gripped the pages tightly, choking them, and he walked over to a ferociously burning fireplace, the only source of light anywhere in the house. As the boy slowly tore out each page and fed it to the fire, the hearth jumped violently and tossed and roared, burning the life out of the paper. Still hearing the cries of the kid in the story, the boy hesitated for a moment, then threw the book completely into the fire and ran away. He smiled devilishly as he thought about the crying and the pain beneath it, and how his murder of the book seemed fair retribution for how it upset him.

A few minutes later, the book was all but gone, reduced to cinders. Its spirit had vaporized, but the agonized cries of the child in the

book still faintly lingered in the air. The fire had somehow also gone out, and the young boy was surprised at how cold he felt in the lonely house. He heard the wooden roof creaking and peered out an open window in his room. Everything had become dark—the room, the house, outside, everything. He heard no noises other than remnants of the lingering cries. Suddenly the boy remembered his parents:

“Mom? Dad? Hello?” the boy called out. The only response was the continuing wails—what was he to expect? He thought about how his room used to belong to his brother, who had been the same age as the boy from the book, and how they probably looked the same. That reassured him. For no reason, he absentmindedly whispered to the darkness, “Don’t worry! They’ll be back soon...”

Yawning, the boy did not bother to turn on any lights—he knew they worked, but he preferred to live in the soothing mantle of the cold darkness—as he quickly journeyed out to the kitchen and grabbed a late-

night snack. Still strangely attracted to the dead fire, he peered curiously into the hearth as he passed and saw ashes of the book, strangely arranged in the shape of a little boy’s face.

Some of the ashes lay in a steady line resembling a smile.

Some minutes later, the boy lay in bed, vaguely wondering about his parents. He had tried to turn on the lights and realized they had stopped working. The blackness and frigid cold pervaded everything, but the boy did not feel angry or upset anymore, and he actually felt quite warm. As he dozed off to sleep, the crying of the young child in the book had melted away into a sweet lullaby, and the boy felt content dreaming about its reassuring story. He thought of joyous nights long ago, sitting with his mother and father and brother around the life-giving hearth with a book he received as a present, on whose cover a happy child frolicked in the warm sun.

Gamble of a Lifetime

Vaughn Irish ’25

Work had been a struggle today. My job is far from ideal, but for now, it is a necessary evil. The one thing that motivated me to get out of bed this morning was the promise of Sin City, Las Vegas. What wasn’t there to love about Vegas? The flashing lights from every direction, blaring music, the commotion of tourists; it’s a city that never sleeps. Above all, though, are the casinos that line the Las Vegas Strip. Inside these buildings, magic happens. People become millionaires overnight! Just the thought of this occurring made me excited. What if I’m the next one to make it big? Then I could finally quit my job and live freely, not enslaved to any boss or the relentless grind of capitalism.

After work I plan on making a trip to one of these casinos. It will be nothing too crazy; maybe just a couple hundred dollars. It’s 4:30 p.m. and I could not help but be consumed by the anticipation. I rushed out of the building and began the long walk back to my apartment. Despite the earlier sunshine, the temperature in

Vegas had dropped to a cool fiftysix degrees, and the once-calm sky seemed to churn in disapproval. The formerly gentle breeze had now grown turbulent; its howls echoed into my ears. Clouds shrouded the once-friendly sun and blocked it from my view entirely.

At my apartment, I tossed my bag on the floor and then went to change my clothes. There is no need to hurry, since the neon lights of the city would ensure that lost daylight is no problem. I am just so excited to enter the casino. I grabbed my phone and wallet and started my journey to the longawaited strip. While I was in the apartment, the conditions had worsened. What had once been a cool Vegas afternoon had turned into a tempestuous battleground of thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind’s furious howling attempted to hinder my progress. The dark clouds had completely blinded me from any natural light, enveloping the world in an oppressive shroud of darkness. The rain fell like bullets from the sky as if Nature

herself was trying to stop me. I was in the final stretch of the walk when I finally saw the casino at the end of the road. Its lights were beckoning me to escape the weather outside. As I drew closer, I came across other people making their way into the casino. Groups of men and women rushed to get out of the storm’s fury while still laughing and joking with their friends. They seemed invisible to the war I felt like I fought against the frenzied winds.

Finally, I enter the casino around 8 p.m. The warm and dry building is a relief from the terrible conditions outside. Where should I go first? There are so many options. While inside I notice the weather worsening even more. Hail pounds the roof and windows with relentless force. The staff attempts to block it out, but it is no use. They try closing the windows and doors, but the hail persists in attacking the building. My excitement from earlier has faded. It seems like the weather is urging me to do something, though I cannot discern what this might be. I have an indescribable feeling;

one so strong it crushes my once unending excitement about going in the first place.I made the decision to leave around 9:30 at night. Pushing my way through the crowd, I begin my journey back to my apartment. In my eagerness, I had forgotten to bring a coat, a decision I regret heavily. As I approach my apartment, the storm reaches its climax, engulfing me and making it difficult to walk straight. The thunder mocks my foolishness as the icy rain drenches me, leaving me shivering. Finally, I reach my room. I throw off my now soaked clothes and dry off. Exhausted from the walk, I fall asleep on the living room couch.

I wake up to the tender caress of sunlight on my face; it helps me forget the troubles of the previous night. I grab something to eat when I notice the Tv. What I see next is horrifying: the news channel is fixated on a crime scene. I recognized the place instantly; it’s the casino from last night. There was a shooting in the same casino.

Dylan Salcido ’25 Poker Night

Paranoia

Dylan Salcido ’25

There’s a person I see, And I see him daily, That tall slender man made and dressed in shadow, Yes he appears to me.

Ever present in my mind, All I can think and see is him, I desperately want to go blind, His complexion is just too grim.

I hear his voice too, A ghastly whisper that only says my name. I swear someone’s pranking me, But I don’t know who’s to blame.

Now alone with unwanted company, Wanted company is lonely, Because I always turn to see if he’s there, I never find him, but I know he’s smiling.

Do you know what it’s like, To live in a prison of your own mind?

To know that nothing is there,

Yet with all sincerity swear, That a shadow man watched you sleep. Stayed until the alarm clock beeped.

But you were too tired to care, That a ghoulish man was there.

He tries to get in my house, So I make sure the doors are locked.

I know it won’t stop him, It happens so much I’m not even shocked.

I know he’s real. His spectral form is so palpable, His voice is so distinguishable, Once I even saw him clean my pool. I talk to friends about him, They say he’s not real, But I see and hear him clear as day.

The Championship

Pierson Kedora ’31

It was finally the day when my basketball team would play in the championship game. The results could either be to win the championship or to go home without the beautiful golden trophy. This trophy was special to us and the other team because it would help you remember the wonderful victory of a championship game.

I woke up to find my bedroom light on and my mother standing there saying, “Wake up, Pierson, it’s time to eat a good breakfast so you are ready for the big game.”

I went to my closet, got dressed, and joyfully ran down the stairs to eat breakfast with my family. My mom always made the most delicious food. She normally makes me a ham and bacon omelette, some juicy turkey bacon, and a lot of fruit. I quickly devoured all my food and sprinted to the garage to get my bag. After I got my bag, I went to get my basketball and packed a water bottle. I put the basketball in my bag and put the bag in the trunk of my car. I packed a water bottle. Now, it was time to go!

My dad backed out of the garage and started driving towards Coppell Middle School East. My sister and I were arguing over what song to play in the car. I told my sister we should play Taylor Swift, but she said that Lainey Wilson was a good way to start off the day. We ended up having to let my baby sister choose the song. Of course she said, “Let’s play baby shark — it’s my favorite song.” Now my sister and I were trying to cover our ears, but it was hard to not hear it because my four-year-old sister was screaming, “Baby shark... do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do” repeatedly. When we arrived, we all felt relieved, even our parents!

I went into gym two and put my bag down on our bench. All my teammates came over to the bench to greet me. After greeting my friends, I got my basketball out of my bag and started practicing lay-ups. After about ten minutes, I practiced my three pointers. I was not particularly good at threes, but I still made a couple of them. After another five minutes, our team went to greet the other team and to say the pledge.

The first half went smoothly. I scored six points. The score was now 12 to 9 and we were leading. This was a great start to our game! We were constantly passing the ball and making good shots. I received the ball and passed it to my friend. He shot a long three. I was subbed out for the rest

of the third quarter. On the sideline, my friends and I were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors.

In the fourth quarter I was subbed back in. The score was now 21 to 17. We were still in the lead. Then, suddenly, the other team scored nine points against us. This was bad because the score was now 24 to 26 and the other team was ahead of us. I started to hype our bench team up. Then we all started screaming, “We will win! We will win!”

Our coach called a timeout, and we discussed the game plan. We were to pass the ball around and waste time. When the clock had seven to eight seconds left on it, we would shoot the three. We got onto the court and received the ball; it was then sent down the court to one of our players. He held the ball till ten seconds were left on the clock. Can we win?

It felt like a brief moment that I was lost in space. It was like my mind had stopped and I had no feelings inside of me. Our whole team depended on this moment. My friend shot. Oh, no! He missed it! Then, thankfully, my teammate jumped up and got the rebound. He faked the shot and then passed it to me. I stepped back, faded away from the hoop, took the shot, closed my eyes, and hoped for the best. I heard a sudden roar from the crowd. Yes, I had made it! The whole team came to celebrate with me. I was being dog-piled with my whole team on me. I could not breathe. I told my teammates to get off me. After I stood up, I was patted on the back from every side of my body. After this long moment of happiness and relief, we shook hands with the other team. After this, our team said a quick prayer. When we finished the prayer, everyone congratulated me for my amazing shot, and they dumped Gatorade all on my head. I was very sticky. My family drove home. Once we got into the house my mom prepared a nice juicy steak for dinner. New York Strip specifically. I showed them my trophy and then went to go put it in my bedroom. I ran up the stairs, after tripping several times. I ran into my room and found the best place to put my beautiful championship trophy. I put it right in front of the light so everyone could see it shine.

Finally, I went to bed, falling asleep, looking at my trophy just before I closed my eyes. What an amazing game!

My Holiday in Roma

Henry Junker ’31

My holiday in Roma was an incredible experience. I went with my brothers, parents, and Nana. We stayed in an old Roman palace, visited two churches every day, got addicted to gelato, almost got to see Tom Cruise, and walked. A LOT. It was extremely exciting, and now, the Roman Chief of Police has my Dad’s phone number! (I’ll get back to that later.) But first let’s take it back to October 2022.

AAAEEEIIIIIHHHEEEE-HHHOOOIIIOOOIIIAAAIIIEEE!!! screamed the young banshee in the night. Okay, to be fair we were going through some really bad turbulence, but still, that baby was loud!

The whole trip started with us going to an alumni weekend thing at the University of Dallas. My parents got so flooded with memories about the Rome trip they had while they were there, that in about a month, (without any planning), Dad bought plane tickets to Rome for summer of 2023. He does stuff like that a lot. Sometimes — no, all the time — it’s fun, but it’s also shocking. How would you feel if one minute your dad was at the house, the next he was rushing off to buy a huge TV? You would not believe how many speakers we go through! We were all super excited, especially when we heard that Nana was going to join us, but little did we know how terrifying the trip was going to be.

The trip didn’t start out horribly; we got to ride a huge plane to Montreal, a city in Canada. Sure, it was six hours long, but we got to play digital poker on the tablets on the back of the chair. It was the flight from Montreal to Rome that was horrible. Overnight flights are bad enough without you regretting the three pieces of toast you ate for breakfast (I was hungry, okay?). To usual Junker fashion, the youngest two, Iggy and Paddy, were sound asleep, leaving only Peter and me to cringe at the fact that Nana was on the verge of tears and praying the Rosary. And of course, the baby. Why couldn’t he have fallen asleep like Paddy? But this Demon whose name I don’t know refused to be calm. In fact, he made Bob Dylan’s Christmas Album sound like it was recorded in Heaven, then edited by Angels! BADUMP! Wait, that one was louder than usual. CHRRRCK. “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that our flight may be-” BADUMP! Okay,

I was scared. Heck, the guy was just cut off! A moment later he was able to continue, but I wasn’t listening. All of a sudden, the plane started shaking like crazy. Peter was sweating like a fountain and whimpering softly, Nana was hyperventilating, Mom and Dad were looking very worried, I was just about to join Nana in prayer, and the Banshee was still sobbing. After 45 minutes it was over —and the baby was asleep. Peter was only able to say one sentence before he joined him in peace: “That was FUN!”

“And this trash bin reminds me of the ancient Greek wars, and I know how much you Americans like to throw stuff away,” said the demon.

“This is very interesting,” said my dad, “and I love the tour of the uh… stanza, but- “

Boy, were we exhausted! We agreed that before we could go anywhere, we would get some rest. But sleep is a fickle… enemy, I guess? (Maybe you can’t make sayings up until you’re famous, because that was horrible!) When we got to ‘Hotel Costaguti,’ we just needed the key. It was so simple. We just needed the key. It was so simple. WE JUST NEEDED THE KEY! IT WAS SO SIMPLE! But no. Of course, the owner was sick. Of course, the owner’s son didn’t speak English. Of course, they needed to send… the demon backup (make the demon count two). I don’t even remember his name, and I do NOT want to. The first thing he did was show us a picture of his deceased mother. Then, it took him two and a half HOURS to give us the key. And there were some… interesting conversations.

“NO! That is not how you say it! Say stanza!”

“This is great, but- ”

“REPEAT!” And so, it went on for two hours. Casual.

After we got some rest, (and our keys), we got our first real look at Rome. It was incredible. I never thought something could look so old yet feel so alive. Because the day was more than half spent, we decided to wander around within a half mile of our castle. And that’s when it happened. (The only moment in my life that could hold a candle to this was when I first tried coffee.) It was when I had my first gelato. Some of the best things in life happen while in a street café, and this was no exception. It was ice cream, but so much softer and creamier, and going to Rome would be worth it just for this. However, for every sunshine, a… piece of… water vapor? That

happy moment ended rather quickly; the entire family was exhausted, and what do you do when you, and everyone around you, is tired? Get emotional. So here we are, a beautiful, peaceful family, sitting on the curb, and crying. We needed a good cry.

Rome is a bit of a blur. I mean, I remember it all, but it’s mushed together. Funny how that can happen. You can be having the time of your life one moment and barely remember it afterwards. However, some moments stick out like a chicken in a room full of penguins (I’ll keep working on these guys). Like when we went to the Vatican Museum. We got to see the Sistine Chapel as part of the tour, and it was crazy to think that Michelangelo painted it by himself. Another was when we first rode on the subway. It started out normally, but after I noticed something on the floor. A wallet? I thought people cared about money! When I showed Dad, he started asking security guards about what to do with the wallet, who helpfully replied; “I don’t understand.” In the end, we went to the police station to return it, and, for some reason, Dad had to give his phone number to the police. The entire day he was acting jittery and checking his phone. Poor

dad. And there’s always something on a trip that seems so natural. Most Americans drink coffee; we wouldn’t settle for anything less than a cappuccino. It was impossible to survive without them. And remember what I said about getting addicted to gelato? We would have it two times a day, sometimes before 10 a.m. One could say it was justifiable because we were walking at least two miles every day (probably because of the cappuccinos).

For the last two days of the trip, we stayed in a fancy apartment building, right next to the Spanish Steps. The exciting part was that the cast of Mission: Impossible 7 was staying in the hotel right next to us! I mean, we were fantasizing about seeing them walk the red carpet and signing autographs. Peter was personally excited to meet Benji. The disappointing part was that the primer/Red Carpet appearance would happen the day after we left (I can hear the pessimists laughing.)

But of course, all trips come to an end. We left on our tenth day, with unhappy hearts. As we were on our flight back to Montreal, we heard that our flight to Dallas was canceled. My dad quickly got us a flight to Orlando, and we slept peacefully. The next

day was crazy. We could not get on our flight because our tickets weren’t verified? (I’ve never understood it myself.) However, Nana just had to tell a little sob story, and she got through? Once we finally got real tickets, we could get follow…with eight minutes until boarding. Then began the wild run. We all were taking different paths and hitting things, Peter even fell head first into a metal pole! Then, once we got on, our flight was delayed

TWO HOURS!

Were we glad to be back in Dallas!

My trip to Rome was a fruitful experience. I now know the value of an international trip, and I hope you will have the chance to see Rome yourself! But if not, you can always visit Eataly at NorthPark (same value)!

Sir Paddy (The Two-Year Old)

Henry Junker ’31

Sir Paddy was a well-known knight.

He never lost a duel.

He loved his dear pet panda, who Would go on adventures too.

One day they encountered an evil lady, Who was clothed in a dress so verde.

She put Panda in a magical trance, And threw poor Paddy away.

So bravely, Sir Paddy would trek the land

He entered a shabby, old hut on this journey, And found a metal chest.

In hopes of finding his pet. Through mountain, forest, hill, and plain,

In lands that were dry and wet.

He pulled out a rocket-ship onesie, And set off, ignoring the rest.

He was blessed when he found this fuzzy onesie, For the nights were cold and harsh. He would lay, delaying the horrible walk, But, eventually, restart his march.

He came upon a baleful castle, With a door of ancient oak.

Above it hung a sign that deemed This place to be “Bedrock.”

He opened the evil, foreboding door,

In hope of finding his pet. He did not expect to find a bed, Ready for him to rest.

Panda was lying on the bed, While the woman watched the infant.

She laughed as Paddy approached the berth, And kicked him into the linen.

She aroused a small machine of sound, Which made rainy melody. She quickly extinguished the only lamp, Which gave the room obscurity.

Paddy fought the trap of repose, Which he was ensnared in.

But exhaustion overpowered babe, And he lay while resting.

Sir Paddy was a well-loved knight. He fought for all well-being. He loved all people equally, But now he’s reposing.

The Impossibilis Labyrinthus

Justin Lee ’30

It was October 23, 1999, and rain pelted against the window. Timmy Trickle was age eight and a half years old. Timmy Trickle couldn’t wait to receive much candy from his parents and neighbors on Halloween. That night was a strange one. The moon was bright red, and the rain turned to hail. Timmy was scared, but he forced himself to sleep. Much later, Timmy opened his eyes and saw himself in front of a maze. A sign right next to the maze read ‘The Impossibilis Labrinthus’. Timmy was confused when suddenly a scroll popped out of the sky. It read:

Welcome contestant! You are in ‘The Impossibilis Labrinthus’. You must find your way through the maze before dawn, or you will not return to your home. Instructions:

1. Find the shadow merchant where you must negotiate a trade with him to receive the shadow hunter.

2. You will face your first obstacle.

3. If you are alive, use the shadow hunter against my friend, the Annihilare, who will do anything to stop you. Riddle: A firearm cannot do your damage, for you must manage your inner gifts.

4. You will then face Mimus who will send invisible obstacles to you. Riddle: Two more gifts you must, to bust this large wall of dust.

5. Finally, you will face me, Count Draccus once a vampire and now here to rule this maze.

Good luck contestant.

Timmy didn’t know what the riddles meant but he knew he had to do this. Then, he set off to the shadow merchant. The merchant was completely wrapped in shadows. You could see no distinction of his face or any part of his body. He said in a deep voice, “What do you seek, tiny child?” Timmy responded, “I am looking for the shadow hunter.”

The merchant burst into laughter. “That will cost you a lot! Half the people who try to negotiate with me die because they can’t give me what I want. Timmy choked back a sob. The merchant said, “I will give you an easier task if you wish. I want your soul.” Timmy gasped and said “How?” The merchant responded, “I will take your soul by……. KILLING YOU!” When the merchant hit him, Timmy crashed into a wall. He got up and suddenly snatched the weapon

from the merchant. The merchant cried, “WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING WITH THAT!” Timmy ran as fast as he could and found a portal. He knew if he stayed, he would be dead. Soon, he found himself in an obstacle course.

Timmy looked at the course. It was like a video game. He saw another portal at the end — he knew he could do this. He leaped and made it! Timmy easily got to the end of the course. He smiled knowing he was only closer to going home.

Annihilare looked impossible to defeat. He was a regular sized human but with a pumpkin head and a skeleton body. He carried a spear and looked at Timmy with a crooked grin on his face. Timmy was terrified. He didn’t know how to use the shadow hunter. Annihilare said, “Welcome contestant! Only two out of thirty people have gotten past me. I will ensure you a quick and easy death, child.” Timmy yelled, “NEVER!” Annihilare frowned and charged him. Timmy dodged the first attack and shot a Nerf bullet from the shadow hunter into Annihilare’s chest. Annihilare laughed at Timmy. Timmy suddenly knew what the riddle meant! He didn’t have to use weapons to defeat Annihilare, he needed to use wisdom and patience. He sensed Annihilare charging to him and dodged him. Annihilare was confused. Then Timmy stood at the edge of the platform and closed his eyes. Annihilare sprinted to Timmy and right when Annihilare was going to hit Timmy, Timmy took a step to his right side. Annihilare had fallen into the endless darkness. Timmy had so many questions but knew he had no time to waste. He jumped into the next portal.

Mimus greeted Timmy saying, “Ahhh, welcome contestant! I am Mimus and I will be killing you today. Only one person has defeated me. It was your great grandfather. You will find your great grandfather later.”

Timmy was confused. He had met his great grandfather when he was two years old. Then, Mimus attacked with an invisible knife which stabbed Timmy in the leg. “AHHHHHHHHH,” Timmy screamed. “I will let you bleed peacefully.” Timmy knew what the second riddle meant! He had to use knowledge and courage to defeat Mimus and get past his invisible wall! He ripped a piece of cloth and put it on his leg. Then, he used Mimus’ own tricks against Mimus. Timmy made an invisible vacuum and pressed the button. The vacuum sucked Mimus and he yelled, “Impossible…” Mimus banged the invisible glass of the vacuum angrily. Then, Timmy created an invisible knife and cut through the invisible wall. Timmy jumped into the next portal.

Count Draccus looked like his great grandfather for some reason. That’s when Timmy found out what Mimus was talking about. “Welcome great grandson. I knew I would face you when I saw your potential.” “What are you talking about?” “I knew you had the power to beat my friends, but I know you cannot defeat me. Join me and we can rule together.” “NEVER,” Timmy yelled. “Fine, you will die a painful death.

I WILL TAKE YOUR BLOOD AND FEAST ON IT!” Timmy’s heart was beating like a race car. Count Draccus snapped his fingers and Timmy felt his bones crack. All his bones were broken. Timmy found a way to defeat him. He had to use temperance and the love from his heart. He couldn’t kill his ancestor. He gave warming messages to his great grandfather, and he tricked him into mending all of Timmy’s bones. Timmy punched Count Draccus in the face and jumped into the last portal. He was back in his bed.

That morning, Timmy looked at the moon. He saw his great grandfather with a big frown on his face. Timmy smiled knowing he had done it.

Joe Schultz ’26 Stairs

A Boy Named Determination

Joseph Babich ’30

The tennis ball flew over the net, travelling at a speed only imaginable. Henry smashed the ball back over the net. His face dripped with sweat as his adversary smiled and sliced the ball into the corner. The referee called the points, Henry had 40 and his opponent had 30.

Henry was down four games and, if his opponent won the game, he would be one game away from winning the match. Henry served, but the green ball flew miserably into the net. One more try, Henry thought, as he hit the ball over the net. His opponent sliced it back over, the sound of contact rung in the air. Henry almost missed, but the green ball floated slovenly over the net. His opponent stumbled and smashed it into the net. The referee called the game one to four. Even though Henry was down three games, he spun his racket and stared his adversary in the face as they headed to the bench to take a break.

After the much-needed break, Henry got up to serve and aced the ball. The green ball spun and collided with the corner of the court, and a shocked expression appeared on his opponent’s face. Henry continued to consistently hit the ball with spin and speed and slice, resulting in winning not three but four games, bringing the score to five to four. Henry, with all his courage, readied himself for the onslaught of attacks expected from his competitor. The attacks came with even more energy than expected. It was hard for Henry to keep up, but he was determined to prevail.

Finally, the game was tied at 40: all, the next point deciding the game. Henry took a deep breath and served the ball. It barely made it over the net and his opponent cracked under pressure, slamming it out of bounds. Henry went on to win the tournament, learning that if he trusted in himself, he could do great things.

The Krampus

One Autumn morning, Jimmy, who was twelve years old, found himself greeting his new neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Krampun. They were kind, civilized people to the outside world, but they held a grave and dark secret. Now that secret was far from open to the world, and it was passed down from their family for centuries. They were the evil servants of the Krampus! The Krampus was a truly terrible demon who terrorized children on Christmas. Many people thought it was a myth, but he was indeed real. This one time though, he decided to strike on Halloween. Mr. and Mrs. Krampun were kidnapping children from their homes to deliver to Krampus!

Jimmy greeted them with great enthusiasm saying, “Good morning Mr. and Mrs. Krampun!

responded. “Nothing,” Mr. Krampun said quickly.

“How about this Jimmy,” Mr. Krampun continued.

“Why don’t you come to our Halloween party!

Only children allowed though, we don’t want adults to mess up the fun!” “Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Krampun! I would be delighted to be at your party!” “Ok then, the party will be at our house at 4:30 P.M. Don’t miss it!” “Thank you! Have a good day Mr. and Mrs. Krampun,” Jimmy responded.

Jimmy had no idea what he was getting himself into.

TI am delighted that you have chosen to live in our safe neighborhood!

I would be delighted to help you with anything in our neighborhood.” Mr. Krampus laughed, “Safe neighborhood ehhh…?”

“O yes sir! It is one of the safest neighborhoods!

This city might even be the safest in this state!”

“It won’t be safe for long,” Mrs. Krampun whispered.

“Excuse me?” Jimmy

he days passed by and soon it was Halloween night. Mr. and Mrs. Krampun stood in front of their house greeting the many other children coming to their party. They had a huge, evil grin on their faces, knowing that they would be rewarded greatly.

The house was huge! Jimmy didn’t know how this huge space fit into a tiny house. The children ran around playing. Soon, it was time for dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Krampun served a sleepy burger which would make the kids so tired

Justin Lee ’30

that they would not be aware of anything around them. After dinner, the adults made the children form a line to receive a so called “prize” which was really their death. They made one child come into their bedroom and threw them in a sack once they made sure the child was asleep. Jimmy was in the very back and had a strange and awful feeling when none of the kids in the room came out. He decided that

everything was going to be ok, but his body disagreed with him.

You see, Jimmy was energetic because he didn’t eat the burger. His parents specifically said that he must only eat their food and nobody else’s even if they were their closest friend. Jimmy decided to go home since it was already past his bedtime. He didn’t want to anger his parents. Jimmy ran to the door.

Gabriel Berbarie ’26 Krampus

Just then, he heard a bang on the door and footsteps approaching him.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man?” said a voice. Jimmy saw Mr. Krampun with huge, red eyes staring upon him. Soon, Jimmy found himself on a huge platform with the other children.

Aonly short sleeves and shorts. It was gruesome. Five out of the thirty-four kids turned into a block of ice. This night was worse. Jimmy dreamed that he was being haunted by the Krampus in the deep dark woods. Two out of the twenty-nine kids died that night, they died from their nightmares.

“This is the portal in which you may get back to the human world. Have you ever wondered that every Christmas there is a missing report on about one hundred children?”

deep voice said, “Welcome children! Each day your punishment will grow until you are dead. Your first punishment is to be burned on the foot. The ground grew hot, and everyone was jumping up and down like popcorn. That was when Jimmy saw him. The Krampus was a demonic figure with big, great fangs and a long, sharp tail. Three out of the thirty-seven kids died. It was a horrifying sight. The first kid tumbled and burned his head, the second kid had his body completely burned, and the third fell off the platform. After the punishment, one of the Krampus’ guards led us to our beds. They were soft and cushiony, the ones you saw at five-star shops. That night of sleep was the worst, though. The Krampus plagued the children with nightmares and left them to suffer.

The third day’s challenge was hard.

You had a sheet of algebraic problems and each child had to get at least two problems correct or they would explode. This was horrific to the young children. Jimmy made it easily since he had learned this in his math class. Only ten out of the twenty-seven kids left made it. That night was the best, though. Instead of having nightmares, Jimmy dreamed that he was in Candyland. Then, he heard a whisper.

T“No,” Jimmy responded. “I guess, most children don’t pay attention to the news. Ok so, we need to access the code for the portal. All the guards have one, but it is almost impossible to steal one. Maybe we can pickpocket one of them while a challenge is ongoing.” “Are you going to help the other children?”

The next day was an even harder punishment. The children had to survive in a freezing room for five hours with

he kid whispering to him looked old, even though he was a child. He said, “Hi, I am here to help you get out of this place. I know this place is terrible, but I can get you back to the human world. I was once a child being tortured but I escaped. I was concealed for thirty years. The guards gave up trying to look for me. Follow me.” Jimmy followed this mysterious child.

“I’ll try to, but I need to at least get one out to the world to warn others about the Krampus. For years, parties have looked for the Krampus. One group succeeded and got visually proof, but that barely made it to the world. Only one of the members successfully found the Krampus and returned alive. Nobody believed him, though. Now, I have a full video of the Krampus in this USB. If you get this to the world, no more children will suffer. Why can’t you go yourself?

a guard, they opened the portal. Soon though, the Krampus found them and said, “You try to run from me?” The old kid responded, “Yes, I will get this boy to the outside world before you kill him. I will stop you! I have been waiting thirty years in here.” “Fine then, you both will suffer.” The old kid said, “Kid, don’t wait for me. When the portal opens, jump in and I will seal it. Do you understand?” Jimmy nodded sadly. The Krampus ran into the old kid with his pitchfork. He flinched in pain. The Krampus made his way to Jimmy and clutched him in the neck. “NOOOOO!” the old kid said. He smacked the Krampus in the head and held him down tight. The next few moments were like an illusion. The portal opened. Jimmy jumped in looking at the joyful face of the old kid. “Just remember me when you get famous ehhh…?” “Oh, you bet I will!” Then, Jimmy found himself back in front of his house on the same night as the one he got kidnapped.

“It is because it has been thirty years since I was in the real world. Nobody will believe one word I say. Believe me, I have tried hundreds of times to get out of here.” “Ok then, let’s go finish this battle,” Jimmy responded.

The plan worked. After the children successfully pickpocketed

One Later…Year

The Krampus was captured and placed in a huge citadel in Europe. Jimmy was a hero. Then, he remembered the old kid. He looked up into the bright, blue sky and smiled at the face of his old friend.

Forbidden Waters

Coleman Griffith ’25

A drop of sweat slid down the side of my face. The heat seemed to slow time almost to a stop as my friends and I hiked for miles along a winding dirt road. We were deep inside the thick Pine Forest at camp Greenfield just outside of Austin. As we walked between the towering walls of ancient pine trees that towered over us, we listened as the wind whispered through their branches. I noticed on the right stood a crumbling stone wall with the name “Shadow’s Cove” plastered on it in faded black letters. It stood in front of an unkempt and overgrown path packed tight with a thorny bush that warned all travelers to stay away. I looked over to my counselor and asked where the path led. He kept his gaze forward and murmured the words “forbidden waters.” Expecting an explanation, we paused, but nothing. So, we asked him “Forbidden, why?” He let out a long, exaggerated breath and then proceeded to tell the story of Chase, the lost camper.

It all started a long time ago in the first few years after the camp’s founding. The owners wanted to give campers a break from the heat, so they opened up a swim bay at Shadow’s Cove. It was a blast, every age group loved it. There were slides and rope swings and boats and water skis. But Chase, who was an older camper, and his gang were known all throughout the camp. They had a reputation: Wherever they went, trouble followed close behind. They were idolized by all the kids and hated by all the staff. Rebellion seemed to course through their veins. They were the criminals known for their daring yet stealthy nighttime excursions. It was Chase’s last year at camp and also the first year of the new swim bay that welcomed all travelers into its refreshing waters. Late on a still summer night, while the rest of the camp was asleep, he and his friends wandered the camp as they did every other night. Both bored out of their minds and motivated by a teenage compulsion to defy the rules and seek the unknown, they decided to take a forbidden swim in the new cove. He and his friends got in to enjoy the warm, still water that normally was white with waves and movement from boats and other campers’ splashes. As one of the first to ever see the new swim bay at night, Chase was reasonably confused and intrigued when he spotted

a dim light far down at the bed of the river. It was dim but could clearly be seen through the dark green hues of the still and murky water. One small light sitting at the bottom of the bay, glowing softly like the ember of a dying campfire against the dark green hues of the murky water surrounding it. Chase called his friends over and asked, “How could a flashlight have even gotten out here?” Its glow was both mesmerizing and mysterious and sent a chill down their backs. The warm water which they had gotten into at the beginning of the night seemed to turn ice cold. Nonetheless they burst into argument, questioning whether it was really a flashlight. They argued whether it was a reflection of someone’s watch or a piece of jewelry. Chase treaded water as his friends continued to debate what the source of this mysterious light was. Tired of their bickering, he took a deep breath and dove as far as he could under the water. Taken aback by his sudden departure toward this eerie and mysterious light, his friends watched as his feet slowly disappeared in the muddy water. The moon faded behind the clouds and the night grew darker but still they kept arguing until one of them nervously said, “Should we go down to get him? It’s been a while.” Before anyone could answer,

their heads whipped toward the front of the swim bay. The static crackle of the camp director’s walkie-talkie pierced the night. They sat silent, frozen, hoping they had misheard the sound of the director’s walkie-talkie, but then a blinding light washed over them, and they heard the voice of the camp director yelling at them. “Stay where you are!” Instinct kicked in and they all hopped out of the water and scattered in a frenzy in hopes of outrunning the director. It was chaos, a whole cabin running at full speed in all different directions. As they sprinted back to their cabins, the sun started to rise, filling the sky with an almost blood orange hue, bringing to a close the campers’ night of dreadful adventures. It was only then, after all the chaos had subsided, that they realized they had forgotten about Chase. He never did emerge from the dark green murky waters of Shadow’s Cove. And legend has it if you’re sneaking around camp at night, you can see his ghost wandering through the towering pine forest that seem to whisper amongst themselves. It is his chilling fate to search through the night with a flashlight for his friends who left him behind so many years ago. So, if you ever see a dim light off in the distance at Camp Greenfield, run!

Chances are he just might bring you back with him to Shadow’s Cove.

Levi Hebert ’30 Abstract Study

The Phantom of the Upper Field

Dhruva Kumar ’25

One day, a decent time ago, there was a group of students in PE on the Cistercian upper field. It was a beautiful spring day: The weather was warm, the leaves were rustling, and a slight breeze was flowing over the field. All was well as the students’ class ended, until one particularly inept kid kicked the ball a little too far. As the ball sailed through the air, there was a sudden gust of wind, and the ball landed somewhere unseen, deep into the accepting brush. As any good person must do, he went after the ball and told his friends that he would meet them tomorrow after school. As he looked around, he could not spot the ball at all. He searched for several minutes to no avail. Getting discouraged, he noticed in some areas there was a slight discoloration in the tall weeds, swaying a few feet away from him. Their color resembled more the dead brown of a Texas fall than the green of spring. Investigating further, he followed the pattern deeper and deeper

into the woods. He felt more secure because he had his phone in his pocket. In fact, he was playing a YouTube video the whole time. However, a mere phone could not save him. He had lost track of time; he had gone too deep. He would not be seen again.

As days turned to weeks, no one could find him. He, quite frankly, had disappeared.

One night, about a year later, a group of three students snuck onto the upper field at midnight. It was unusually chilly for a day in late April. A classmate had dared them to go there because they were too afraid to watch horror movies with them. In this case, the three were not afraid. What could happen when there were no dangers around? However, something was amiss. At midnight, the whole earth seemed to quiet for a moment, and there was a faint voice in the woods—a voice not unlike a YouTube video playing on a phone. Investigating further, they too de-

cided to venture into the woods. It would be a fatal mistake. The three students would not be seen that day, the next day, or any day after.

After that disappearance, all were afraid to go to the upper field at night. And no one even thought about retrieving a stray ball that happened to fly into those cursed woods.

Even to this day, if you have the courage, you can go to the Cistercian upper field. If you listen closely right at midnight, all the crickets will stop chirping, the leaves will stop rustling, and you may just hear a faint voice emanating from deep inside those woods next to the upper field. Indeed, if you look even closer, you just might notice the even fainter glow of a phone. But just as quickly as you see it, it will disappear, beckoning you into the woods. But do not, under circumstance, follow it. It may be the last thing you ever do.

Cub Gerber ’25 Upper Field Phantom

The Darkness

Harrison Moran ’29

Running, running, running

My breath comes in ragged gasping

My hair is plastered to my face

My legs are trembling with the fear

Of the darkness behind

Running, running, running

My boots crunch through an icy stream

My arms get scraped by vines

My eyes are straining through the night

Searching every shadow

Running, running, running

My legs pound even faster

My sweat runs down my face

My boots snag on a hidden root

And I crash to the ground

Denise Williams Moonlit Walk

A searing pain shoots up my leg

My brain clouds with the shock

My heart is beating slower and slower

My breath comes in harsh gasps

And fingers turning numb

The darkness is everywhere

Calling my inner fear

Coldness, seeping in me

Eyelids closing, the will is gone

All I feel is the cold

Enveloped by darkness

My features laying prone

My face cold and paling

My clothes ripped and matted

All alone in darkness

Winter in Kerala: Pantoum

John Paul Jacob ’24

I breathe in smog and salt and Grandpa’s spices

And headlights flicker off and on as rickshaws sputter

I am not here; I yearn for home, and yet

We reach into the trunk and get our bags

And headlights flicker off and on as engines sputter

Phantoms of the past and future float by in the dark

We reach into the trunk and get our bags

He always said he would be gone someday

Phantoms of the past and future float by in the dark

As I lie awake upon the creaking cot

He always said he would be gone someday

I didn’t know that day would come so soon

As I lie awake upon the creaking cot

The sun casts reddish rays upon the wall

I didn’t know that day would come so soon

And strange birds sing their old, indifferent song

The sun casts reddish rays upon the wall

I sweat beneath a Kerala winter’s heat

And strange birds sing their old, indifferent song

The sareed women cry; I hold the melancholy

I sweat beneath a Kerala winter’s heat

Christ comes to Earth, and we shall meet again

The sareed women cry; I hold the melancholy

I bear his body now upon my back

Christ comes to Earth, and we shall meet again

I am not here; I yearn for home, and yet I bear his body now upon my back

I breathe in smog and salt and Grandpa’s spices

What is Truth?

Byron Duhe ’25

What is truth to the one who is storming, fuming, raging

And will muster and leverage anything to advance A shallow point?

What is truth to the willfully ignorant

In the face of self-justifying passion?

What is truth to the lying, the boasting, the languishing Who never admit personal wrong?

What is truth to those who do not seek it, Do not feel it, do not live it, And it unravels within their grasp?

What is truth to them but a difficult reality, A far-off ideal,

An unachievable aspiration?

What is truth to them but Nothing , nothing at all.

Truth, however, is living, breathing, liberating. Respect it, cherish it, embrace it with every step. Every minute action can weave a delicate tapestry

Whose beauty draws one ever closer to what was regarded as impossible, The perception of Truth , truth which saves all.

Due to the exceptional conviviality and brotherly love involved in this production, all students deserved, at one time or another, to be senior editor, or senior art director/photographer, or senior expert in something. We decided to acquiesce to the sentiment of egalitarianism. Special kudos, of course, to our summer troupe of Henry, Cub, Stefano, Dylan, Tristan, and to the efforts of Mrs. Kara Dahl and Fr. Raphael, resident InDesign experts.

Will Edwards

Henry Folmnsbee

Cub Gerber

Eddie Maurer

Dylan Salcido

Stefano Salomone

Tristan Yuen

Letter from the Sponsors

Cistercian’s literary magazine has undergone a transformation this year—and not just in finding the balance between banana-smoothie yellow and texturized monastic windows (though I am quite excited about this year’s brilliant cover). No, this transformation has occurred deeply. It started with the small but dedicated group of juniors who managed, despite a number of obstacles and distractions, to work together in the first weeks of summer to finish a rather rough draft of a rather rough compilation of miscellaneous artwork, prose, and poetry that somehow managed to find a way onto InDesign pages during the school year—even without Fr. Stephen’s expertise. It started with a recognition that each member of this team of soon-to-be seniors, talented and involved in varied capacities, worked together throughout the school year to contribute something beautiful to the overall process. It started with humor, determination, collegial support, positive motivation, perseverance, and— through the grace of the Holy Spirit—the absolutely stunning production of the forty-first edition of Reflections.

Though the sponsors of this student-driven magazine are supposed to inspire and instruct, organize and encourage, initiate and guide (and any other number of things that require a seemingly impossible balance between managing and doing), it is rather the students who have educated the sponsors, for we have benefited from watching these young men work together. They have modeled the joy of cooperative learning and taken turns demonstrating leadership, tenacity, innovation, modesty, patience, kindness, respect, and quirky humor. Thank you for teaching us to delight in the journey.

Now, as I close out these last thoughts about our multifarious senior editors, I want to relish the transformation. From Idon’tknowInDesign to Sure,Ican do that. From prep school attire to Dolly Parton t-shirts. From Brookview band tunes (’12) to playlists designed by the most eclectic audiophiles from the class of ’25. From bites out of the wrong burrito to Sauce’s beef ribs (seriously). From tennis ball distractions to the final act. Welcome to Reflections 2024. We can’t wait to see what you do as seniors.

— Denise Williams and Adam Brooks, Faculty Sponsors

Colophon

Reflections is the annual literary/arts magazine for Cistercian Preparatory School in Irving, Texas.

Created by Upper School students, this edition of Reflections was created with Adobe InDesign 2024. Staff met during activities periods twice a week and culled prose, poetry, art, and photography from school-wide student submissions.

Titles are set in Modern No.20 (with some exceptions). The index, body text, and credits are set in Embury Text; point size varies.

Unattributed art and photography were submitted anonymously.